The Man in the Mirror
by sketchnurse
Summary: Gordon Wyatt is called back to duty to deal with a nasty case of escaped serial killer in New Jersey. But when Booth and Brennan come to Princeton to identify an older set of remains, his innocent flu turns into something more sinister...
1. Meetings and More

**This is my new House/Bones crossover. It is going to take place over a longer time period, and will be more procedural than my last crossover. It will be B/B, of course, but the House pairing is still undecided. It takes place after "Wilson" and "The Goop on the Girl". And for those of you who are reading "More Questions", the last chapter is up, but the alert system doesn't seem to be working.**

**Enjoy the first chapter! **

"**The Man in the Mirror"**

**Chapter 1: Meetings and More**

Gordon Gordon Wyatt wasn't entirely impressed with his situation. In two short months, he had gone from a rising star chef to a lowly, reinstated FBI shrink. It wasn't as if he had been given a choice, though. An old case of his had opened up again upon the escape of the infamous serial killer and rapist Fredrick Walker, and, having an extensive knowledge of the man's thought processes and habits, he was an essential component to the case's team. However, his newly regained role as a man of the mind rather than food hadn't been adapted without much fight. He had run away several times, in fact, but the FBI had tracked him down, finally convincing him that the state of New Jersey needed his skills more than his restaurant's patrons. So, here he was, sitting on a bench in the Princeton University grounds, looking over his files for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. So far, three bodies had been discovered in the short three months since Walker had escaped, and he could only think that those were only the ones that had been found. Walker killed three at a time, and stored his victims together, tying them up with twine or another string-like material. He didn't spend much time stalking his victims, picking three seemingly different targets. Gordon Gordon could always thread them together, though. There were always clues hidden in the victims, and it was up to him to thread them together. Hopefully, if he could get the man behind bars again, he could go back to cooking and away from head-shrinking for good.

He wasn't exactly doing anything at the present time, but the FBI wouldn't let him go anywhere outside of New Jersey for more than a few hours. The work had kept him busy, and he had barely had time for a couple of drinks before needing to go back to his hotel to look over new information. He had had a lonely Christmas, with only a few casual acquaintances to share crackers with, and his Christmas morning consisted of sitting in his hotel room, opening the few presents he had been sent. He longed to return to D.C, where he knew his staff and patrons were waiting for his return from the mysterious, last minute trip, but there were more important things to be done, and even in his resentment, he recognized that he was needed to solve this case. He just wished that he had had time for the drink he had promised Booth, as well as tying up the other loose ends back in D.C. But Princeton was nice. And he was looking forward to looking up an old acquaintance. Now if only he could make headway with the case… and get rid of that annoying nausea.

***

"House!" Wilson shouted from the bathroom of their new loft, sounding like the older man had tried to do something worth murdering him over.

"Yes, dear? Did we run out of toilet paper again? I _swear_ I stocked up last time we were at the Wal-Mart." House called back to his roommate, smiling sweetly as he waited for the explosion.

Wilson emerged from the bath room, wearing only a mint green towel and a scowl, and proceeded to walk up right up to his best friend and point a finger at his face.

"You tried to dye my hair _purple_! You're lucky I'm in the habit of making my shampoo into suds before putting it in, or you would have been in _big _trouble!"

House held back a laugh. He hadn't counted on Wilson not noticing the unusual colour of his favourite Pantene, but if it had worked… well, it would have lasted a few weeks.

"Moi?" he asked innocently, pointing his finger in the same direction as Wilson's.

"Well, _actually_, come to think of it, it was probably the evil shower gremlin that I warned you about last week when you…I mean, _someone_, put my razor head on the wrong way and replaced my shaving cream with…foaming spermicide. He's a sneaky little bastard, but I haven't been pranked… I mean, _hit_ by him yet. You should watch out, House."

"Oh, I will." House replied, smiling evilly. "And purple would have been a good colour on you, Wilson. That evil shower gremlin knows what you look good in. Well, I'm off to work. Have fun at that Oncology seminar. I'll be sure to take pictures during clinic duty, so you know what you've missed. You'll get me some of the slides on testicular cancer, right?"

"I'll be sure to, House. And it's not an Oncology seminar, it's a seminar on alternative pain medications, something _you_ really should be going to."

House made a face.

"I'm good with my _ibuprofen_, thank you. Why are _you_ going, then?"

"In case you haven't noticed, House, many of my cancer patients have chronic pain and are in need of pain relief. Hence, I'm going to this thing."

"Alright. Just don't get too weepy or try to make a career-killing speech again. I won't be there to save you again, seeing as Cuddy's got me knee-deep in crotch rot and swine flu. Goddamn pandemic." He looked at Wilson darkly, before rolling his eyes at his best friend's concerned expression.

"Oh, for the love of god, what do you think's wrong with me this time?"

"How are you two, by the way?" Wilson asked, as casually as the oncologist could be under the current circumstances.

"Well, after our wedding in the Philippines, we were thinking of going on a honeymoon around the world!" the diagnostician answered in a sarcastic falsetto.

"Seriously, House." The older man sighed. It seemed like every second sentence had something to do with his wellbeing. Quite frankly, it was getting rather annoying, seeing as Wilson didn't seem to care all that much about his happiness. Or was that reading into the lines too much?

"Same as always, except she hurries out of the room whenever I walk in, and she resents the very fiber of my being." he answered bitterly. "You know, classic 'I'm dating one of House's friends and am _so_ happy that it's not a secret anymore!' Cuddy behaviour. I'm not too worried."

"You know, if you two don't sort through whatever it is that happened between you, the hospitals going-"

"To be in shambles in a few months, I know. I'm just going to hold out until then. Besides, she's the one who doesn't want to say anything besides the fact that there never was an 'us'. If she wants to keep it at that, I'm fine. If she's happy, I'm-"

"Miserable.' Wilson finished for him. "I know. But then again, you're always miserable."

"Oh, I don't know, Jimmy, I was pretty… _un_-miserable a few months ago."

"Yeah? Doing what?"

"Trying to become happy." House answered, matter-of-factly.

"Right. You were actually content at one point in the past year? Contentment that wasn't the result of a hallucination?"

"Well, technically, it _was_ the result of a hallucination, but not directly. Mind you, it only lasted a few days before falling apart."

"_Mayfield_? Are you going to tell me? You haven't told me ANYTHING about Mayfield yet."

"That's because I know you'd want to read into every little thing that happened. Since that hasn't happened, I've been spared a fair amount of grief."

"Did you make a friend there? Why haven't you kept in contact? Why haven't I heard anything about this?"

House sighed again. Trust Wilson to take on of his comments and twist it into the Great Important Thing.

"Just a woman, Jimmy. Oh, lust, the fleeting feeling of frivolousness…" he trailed off, waggling his eyebrows.

"Wait; you had an AFFAIR while in a MENTAL HOSPITAL? Why didn't you tell me? Was she a patient? Was she hot? Did you sleep together? What happened?"

House rolled his eyes.

"Again, I didn't tell you because you would want to pick apart at it until you had me convinced that we had actually gotten married and had three children, all before I killed her father and her long lost half-cousin whose children she had beared in her past life."

"Wh-what?"

"You tend to exaggerate _everything_, Wilson. No, she wasn't a patient; she was the wife of a patient's brother. She was pretty, and yes, we had sex. And then Freedom Master cured her friend and they all left to be a big, happy family in Arizona with her husband and two kids. Ta-da. Now you know my awful secret." He brushed a few fake tears off his face before walking to the hall to find his shoes.

Wilson took a few moments to collect his thoughts, before following his friend to the closet.

"Okay, so let me get this straight: You had an affair with _another_ married woman, with _children_ this time, and… who the hell's _Freedom Master_?"

"Oh, look, I'm late for work." House said evasively, trying to push past the man who had barricaded him inside the loft with his still toweled body to get to his collection of sneakers.

"Just wait one minute, House. You can't tell me you got some action while in the nut house-"

"I find that term offensive."

"-While in a psychiatric facility without discussing the details with me. Where the hell did you _do_ it? On your bed?"

House gave up his search for the right pair of shoes. It was best to deal with Wilson while the topic was still fresh and hadn't had time to fester.

"It was on a chair, if you _must_ know. And no, we didn't get caught or anything, and as far as I know, she didn't tell her husband. Just _flew_ off to Arizona."

"Does Nolan know?"

"Of course Nolan knows, what did you think I was using him for?"

"So, you got through it okay?"

"Well, obviously, otherwise I would still be there with the manic Hispanic, wouldn't I?"

"Uh, yes? Do I want to know?" Manic Hispanics and Freedom Master? He was certainly going to weasel more information out of House later.

"Not really. But seriously, Wilson, I'm going to be late. And you know how important punctuality is to me."

"Right." Wilson muttered, rolling his eyes. "Oh, _so_ important. Who knows how much hiding from clinic duty you've missed because of the bombshell you dropped on me?"

"Well, there's only one way to find out. I'll have to go to work. Fajitas tonight?"

"Make sure you pick up the steak on your way home, okay?"

"Why do _I_ have to get it? I have a handicap." House whined, pouting.

"Because the butcher is on _your_ way home today. Enjoy testing schoolchildren for H1N1, House."

"Bye." House grumbled, lacing up his sneakers before heading out the door. If he didn't have a case, he would have to come up with a… creative way to cope with his boredom. One which a certain Dean of Medicine would not approve of.

***

"House!" shouted an aggressive, feminine voice from the doorways of the morgue. Damn. The She-Devil had managed to find his hiding spot once again. It seemed all people wanted to do was shout at him today. What was wrong with a little bit of harmless fun and relaxation, anyway?

"What?" he whined loudly, swearing when his character on Super Mario lost his last life. Damn Cuddy and her need for doctors in the clinic. He had said it before and would say it again: his talents were wasted on strep throat and teenage chlamydia.

"House, in what universe is it acceptable to shirk your duties and sneak down to the morgue to play video games?"

House giggled loudly.

"What?" she asked, exasperated already. Last night, Rachael had caught the twenty-four hour bug, and while she was fully prepared to deal with puking infants in her workplace, it was a different story at home, especially with Lucas out of town for the night.

"You said 'duties'."

Cuddy rolled her eyes exaggeratedly.

"Of course. I said '_duties_'. Clinic. Now."

"But _mom_!"

"Up. Now! Or I'll-"

"What; cut my salary? Increase my hours? Give me even more clinic duty that you know I won't do? I don't think you have anything left in your arsenal, Cuddy. Face it; you can't get me to do _anything_."

"Who says I won't _fire_ you?"

"Your _guilt_ does. Not only did you cut out part of my leg, but you…crushed my _dreams_." He sucked back a fake sob.

"Hmm, I won't fire you if you don't do what I _hired _you for? There seems to be a problem with that statement…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll go and swab privates. But just you wait, Cuddy. Revenge is coming. I'll get you, my pretty, and your little boy-toy too."

"I'll be sure to keep a lookout." Cuddy replied drily. "UP!"

"Alright, alright, I'm going. Stupid pandemic…" He pushed past her, making sure he invaded her personal space enough to make her uncomfortable, and headed for the elevator. Today was going to be a long day…

***

After three cases of the flu, two pregnancies, and an unfortunately misshapen nose, House walked into the clinic to the most unexpected thing he had seen in a long time.

"Greg?" the middle aged man in a suit asked in an English accent. He looked under the weather, pale circles appearing around his eyes, making him look older than he was.

"No way…" House said, a grin pushing its way onto his face, despite his best efforts. "_Gord_? What are you doing in New Jersey?" Come to think of it, what was his teenage friend Gordon Wyatt doing in _America_?

"Well, I can't really tell you, it being official business and all." House looked at him incredulously. "Christ, it's been a long time. The last time I saw you… well, you didn't have nearly as much facial hair. You've managed to age quite nicely, Greg."

"Can't say the same for you, Gord." House grinned. "The last time I saw you, you were seventeen and living the life, back in England. You looked like hell."

"No offense, I'm sure. And unfortunately, I matured to the point that 'living the life' no longer seemed to satisfy me. I'm a psychiatrist now. Well, I'm not really _supposed_ to be, but I got called back into duty by the FBI, and oh, goodness, I miss my restaurant in D.C…"

"Whoa, hang on. You're a shrink? For the FBI? Never would have guessed that Gordon Wyatt would have wanted to work with crazy people. You were all about the ladies, back in '74…And you didn't sound like such a stuck-up British git, either."

"Minds change, as I'm sure yours has, Greg. Though I can tell from your reputation that you've retained your dislike for authority."

"Well, as a shrink you'd be able to pick apart all the little reasons for that, right? Jesus, I never thought I'd see _you_ again. I thought the closest I'd ever get to Gordon Wyatt again was listening to a Noddy Comet album." Wyatt chuckled at that. He sure missed those days, that was for sure.

"Yes, well, I hadn't held out hopes after your father had uprooted your family once again. Did you move much after England?"

"Not too much after that." House answered, reminiscing. "Mom wanted Dad to settle down more, so we got a place right in the US of A."

"Ah, I see. I suppose you're wondering how I ended up working for the FBI? It's a rather long story, I'm afraid, and I'm more concerned with the bouts of nausea I seem to be experiencing. I'll try my best to hold my rather awful lunch in, but I can't make any promises. You'll have to be careful."

"When did the nausea start?" House asked, settling into diagnostician mode.

"Around twelve hours or so ago, I believe. Waking up in the middle of the night to empty the contents of your stomach is not something one wants to experience repeatedly, so I looked you up, knowing, from various articles in medical journals that your current residence was here in Princeton, where I have been staying for the past couple of months, dealing with a rather nasty case of escaped serial killer."

"The guy who busted out back in October?" Reading the newspapers on the odd occasions that his Game boy died or he ran out of porn seemed to pay off occasionally.

"The very same, I'm afraid. So, the nausea?"

"Are you on any medications? Recent trips? New sexual partners?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Greg, just look at my chart. Everything you need to know is on there."

House reluctantly examined the chart for a few minutes, before taking out his scrip pad.

"I'm writing you up a scrip for Tamiflu. Your pallour suggests fever, and the way you've been carrying yourself tells me that you've been experiencing mild to moderate fatigue."

"Oh, very good, Dr. House. I suppose you think I have that awful swine flu that's been going around?"

"Your symptoms do match, and I've seen enough idiots today with the damn thing to not be able to diagnose it in my sleep."

"I do hope you don't think me an idiot, Greg. I was more interested in getting to talk with you than in my flu-like symptoms, so forgive my apparent caution. I'll get this filled out right away, and get out of your hair."

"Well, you could stay for a while. I have a vixen of a boss who thinks that every minute not spend diagnosing STDs is a minute wasted. General Hospital's on in a few minutes, we could watch on my portable."

"Is that what you do all day, Greg, watch awful soaps while avoiding interaction with the public? I was under the impression that your job consisted of curing the incurable."

"I don't have a case right now, hence, clinic duty. Which, I suppose, brought me the great gift of a long lost friend, so that's not all bad. Where are you staying? We should get a drink later."

"If you can squeeze one in after eight, that would be lovely. It seems that after many months of no contact with my small circle of friends, I've been blessed with two social encounters, all after Christmas, of course. Two of my friends from D.C. have been called in for the investigation… well, I really shouldn't be telling you all this, but the Gregory House I knew had a knack for knowing when to keep his mouth shut… not around his father, unfortunately. But that's all in the past, isn't it? If they're both free, you wouldn't mind me dragging them along, would you? You do give off the impression that you need more friends."

"I have plenty of friends. Well, two. One and a half, actually. Wilson's just fine, except when perfect strangers need his help, then he's off trying to save them, and Lucas is dating my boss, who I… maybe we should save this for later. One and a half friends."

"I daresay we'll have much to talk about over a good bottle of scotch, but perhaps your personal life isn't something we should be talking about when you're supposed to be doing your job."

"Are you kidding? That's all we ever talk about in this place. I wish I had been there when the nurses got wind that I had gone to the loony bin. That would have fed their hunger for gossip for months."

"The loony bin?" Wyatt asked. "Good heavens, Greg, what on earth have you been up to?" House smiled grimly. Gordon Gordon Wyatt had a lot to hear about.


	2. Misreadings and Macaroons

Chapter 2: Misreadings and Macaroons

_Three Hours Earlier, Aiden and Sandra Barnwell's Residence, 344 Ewing Street, Princeton, New Jersey_

"I'm just saying, Booth, that Parker has a valid point." Dr. Temperance Brennan's voice carried across the street, letting the straggling FBI crime scene investigators in on the latest news from Special Agent Seeley Booth's family. "You have not been out with any women romantically in the past few years, and so your son's conclusion was logical to him." She smiled, thinking of what her Parker Booth had said to her while she waited for his father to pack his suitcase for the trip they were to take to New Jersey to examine her type of remains. She knew, as soon as she had heard it, that Booth would not at all like what his son had concluded.

"He think's I'm gay now, Bones, how is that logical? I am NOT gay. I'm very interested in the opposite sex, thank you very much." The FBI agent heard someone chuckle behind him. He shot them a withering look, and their expression became one resembling something someone might have at their best friend's deathbed. Sometimes it paid to be large and intimidating.

"Well, Parker hasn't seen you with any women for a long time, and today's children are constantly bombarded with information about homosexuality, both negative and positive, so he must have put two and two together and concluded that you aren't interested in females sexually." Brennan wasn't the kind of woman to laugh at such a situation, but the expression on her partner's face was almost enough to send her into a fit of giggles. Almost. There was still a crime scene to investigate, and Brennan was nothing if not professional.

"Yeah, but I had him with Rebecca, didn't I? That must have told him that I'm not _gay_!" And if his son knew how much he lusted after one Dr. Temperance Brennan, perhaps he would change his mind about his father's sexuality. Then again, a graphic account of just what he would like to do to his partner would most likely not be appropriate for a boy his age, and in any case, Parker would likely mention something to Brennan about him wanting to make love to her, long and hard, for the rest of his life.

"At that point in time, perhaps. Maybe he concluded that this was a recent development." At that point, their discussion had carried them to the backyard, where a large greenhouse waited for them. A nervous looking couple stood off to the side, the small European man rubbing his even more miniscule wife's shoulder tenderly.

"Don't let too many people in at a time. All the warm air will be let out." Aiden Barnwell said, just a hint of an English accent remaining in his voice. It was obvious to Booth that the man was quite unnerved by all the activity in his modest backyard, perhaps due to the fact that he and his wife hadn't expected to come home from their vacationing in Greece for three months to find quite the smell in their greenhouse. The wife, a former coroner and avid mystery reader, was quick to identify the odour as that produced by decaying human remains. Investigation had revealed three bodies almost at the last stages of decomposition buried under a pile of mirror fragments. The couple, both heavily into home improvements, had been planning on using the pieces of mirror they had collected from various recycling depots and landfills in a pathway they were planning to twist through the garden and out to the front of the house. Unfortunately for them, the project would have to be set back.

"I'm going to need a shovel." Brennan said, trying futilely to access the skull by brushing away the pieces of mirror with her gloved hands.

"You can use this one." Andrea Barnwell told her, handing her a gleaming new shovel with a green handle. For a few minutes, everyone was silent as she removed the variously sized shards of glass from the bodies.

"Judging by the shape of the skull on the left, one of our victims is a male in his late twenties, eastern European." She moved slightly to the right to examine the next skull visible through the pile, offering her professional -and _only_ professional- partner an unfortunate view of her derriere. He tried to avoid examining it more closely than was strictly necessary, but his son's comments to her about the possibility of his homosexuality had sparked a desire to prove to God, or _someone_, that he was, in fact, straight.

"This second skull belonged to a woman, early fifties, of African descent." The forensic anthropologist's voice jolted him out of his admiration, and he quickly scolded himself for drifting off into fantasy land. Ever since that wonderful and terrible (only for the consequences after, of course) dream that he had had, Booth's mind often drifted to the part of his memory that liked to think of her as Bren, and lusting after her seemed only natural. The way she acted around him seemed more and more like the way she would act if she _were_ interested in him, but his mind put down the possibility. He was just over-analyzing everything in the hopes that one of his most secret (at least to her) desires would become reality. But as _he_ knew it, that was a long way off.

"What about the third?" he asked, trying to sound as if he hadn't just been ogling her. It wasn't his fault, he reasoned. He was sure that if she had caught him, he would have been treated to some sort of anthropological explanation of his involuntary staring. That, however, was the last thing he needed. When his Bones started getting all squinty about sex, he tended to need to change the subject very quickly.

He wondered when exactly he had started thinking about Temperance Brennan as 'his'. It had started before the coma, he was sure of that, but as to how many years ago, he wasn't entirely sure. All he knew was that the overly logical, socially awkward forensic anthropologist had somehow managed to become so entangled in his life he was sure it would hurt him more than any torture to lose her.

This, of course, was why any thoughts of a romance with her were shoved off to the back of his mind as soon as they were formed, to come out in the hazy state between sleep and consciousness. He couldn't risk losing her, not when her sanity rested on the thin line between things she could control and things she couldn't.

And he was sure unreciprocated romantic feelings towards her would fall under the 'couldn't control' category.

"Asian, male in his late forties." Three victims, seemingly unrelated, just as he had been told. While others had been working on the case of the suspected killer, no new sets of bodies had been discovered since the Fredrick Walker had escaped that required his partner's special skills until now.

The FBI had been lucky with the other set of remains. They had been buried under a pile of garbage in the local dump, and two very unfortunate teenagers had stumbled on them while trying to drag a couch out from under the rubbish. They had been put there the previous day, and had not yet fully begun decomposition, so identification had been quick and easy. In Fredrick Walker's other murders, the remains had been considerably harder to indentify. A few of Brennan's grad students had been lent out to help when he had still been at large, and she had even identified a few herself.

Brennan brushed aside more fragments. "All three bodies are the beginning of the mummification stage. No apparent causes of death can be seen, although only around 30% of the bodies is visible. A blue rope, most likely made of synthetic material, is holding the bodies together. A thin layer of dust, presumably from micro fragments of mirrored glass, covers all three bodies."

His partner's analysis of the remains had only confirmed what everyone had suspected. There would be more work to be done.

"I need the entire pile of mirror fragments shipped back to the Jeffersonian, along with the remains." Booth sighed. This looked like it was going to be a long investigation.

He got his phone out of his pocket, and dialed the local FBI's number.

"This is Special Agent Booth. I think we have another set of victims for the Walker case." Brennan listened as her partner talked with what she assumed was the FBI agent in charge of the case. She had always enjoyed listening to him speak. He had a warm, masculine tone. His voice had become a comfort to her over the years, and hearing it made her feel safe. Obviously that was because she associated his presence with a reliable protection, not because she had begun to associate him with 'home' or anything ridiculous like that.

Her feelings were based on fact, after all, even if her conscious mind didn't always go over all the reasons every time she felt a thrill or a lurch in her chest when he gave her that smile. She was sure he felt some sort of logic-based strong emotions towards her as well, even if they weren't coupled with romantic interest.

It was obvious in the way he always tried to protect her, whether it was from murderous dinner dates or jealous bullets aimed for her heart. But as for any interest he might have in her sexually… well, it was quite apparent to her that he would never consider her the way she considered him.

All that almost indecipherable garbage about someone being out there for everyone, and all the rest of the romantic mumbo-jumbo Booth had been spouting for the past few years was obviously meant to make her want to expand her horizons and look for _love_. Booth would want that. Booth wanted her to be happy. Booth wanted her to be safe, and loved, and cared for, respected and appreciated.

What her partner failed to recognize, however, was that she already had all of those things from him, and couldn't stomach the idea of depending on someone else. That left her in a kind of limbo, trying desperately to decide whether or not risking her 'heart' would be worth it.

Normally, when it came to matters of emotion, she would ask Booth, but as he was at the center of the problem, that option was unavailable. As for Angela, she didn't feel comfortable revealing such a big secret, even if her best friend constantly shoved what she thought was the truth in her face.

It would be best to see what happened in next few months, evaluate the situation, and move on from there. If Booth didn't want her, then the logical course of action would be to leave him and live somewhere else. That might, however, be a thousand times worse than the daily struggle between her heart and her head. She wondered whether it would hurt him as much as it would hurt her to be separated. He wasn't as acutely aware of the harsh sting of abandonment, but surely there was s_omething_ holding them together?

She had had hope for a while, after the initial shock of Booth's confusion had worn off and her trip to Guatemala over. She had been so…well, disappointed when his long-awaited (if only in her subconscious) declaration of love was disqualified and possibly attributed to his altered brain after the vivid dream he had experienced.

She had let her hopes get up again while he 'taught' her how to fix the sink, but that too had ended like all their other interactions, with an overpowering element of deep friendship and a hint of sexual chemistry that she wasn't even sure was there anymore.

Then of course, there had been the night of the Egypt exhibit, where she had been so sure they were going to kiss she had managed to convince herself he wanted it as much as she did. Perhaps the effect of champagne had distorted her judgment, because surely the look in his eyes didn't convey anything other than his deep, platonic affection for her. He was right, though. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted what happened between them to remain between them.

The was Temperance Brennan thought and saw the world often let her down, but it was the only way she could function. If she was missing anything, hopefully she would figure it out soon.

"Alright, Bones, Agent Fields wants us to come to a meeting about the case later." Booth said, drawing Brennan out of the deep though she had fallen into.

"Why would we need to go to a meeting? I assumed that there was no emergency regarding this case, and even if someone were in immediate danger, having been identified as a target, I don't see why there would be a meeting. I imagine we are available for field work and remain indemnification, nothing more."

"Aww, Bones, why do you have to go and complicate things? It's just a talk given by the psychiatrist in charge of the case. Maybe he'll give us some information we can use."

"Or she, Booth. Females are emerging in the field of psychiatry." Booth grinned. His Bones was always one to point out gender equality and the antiquity of viewing females as the weaker sex. Well, he sure as hell knew girls were just as good as boys, hanging around his ass-kicking, crime-solving, jaw-droppingly gorgeous partner.

"Actually, this time it is a he." His mouth was practically splitting at the opportunity to reveal a secret.

"How do you know?" she asked, putting the shovel down. Her work was done for now, but would continue as soon as they got back to the Jeffersonian.

"Because, we're going to catch up with an old friend. Guess who's been dragged back into psychiatry?" Brennan's small gasp of happy surprise told him that she knew just who he was talking about.

"Dr. Wyatt?" his partner asked incredulously. "I thought he had given the profession up for good!"

"Not when there's a tricky serial killer to put back behind bars, Bones. Look's like we're going to see Gordon Gordon."

***

"Ah, Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth, how good to see you again!" Gordon Gordon Wyatt said as he showed the two early comers to the presentation he was to give in fifteen minutes time to their seats.

"So this is where you disappeared to." Booth said, smiling as he sat down, before wincing slightly. The seats were as bad as the ones back in D.C.

"You've been looking for me, Agent Booth? Something you wanted to discuss, perhaps?" The FBI agent blushed slightly, remembering their last conversation. He had hoped, after hearing the former (or not so former) psychiatrist's words that he would find the courage and opportunity to tell Brennan what he felt about her. Unfortunately, nothing ever came up. She was her usual endearing, overly rational self, and he couldn't seem to find a way into the less predictable part of her mind.

"No, just, wondering, you know?" Brennan looked at him strangely, wondering if Wyatt's comment had any significant meaning. None that she could decipher, although she knew that wink had to have meant something.

"Well, I suppose it's a rather fortunate turn of luck that you two got called here, then, isn't it? I must admit I was getting rather lonely, spending all my time here in Princeton without any close acquaintances, but I've been working closely with the Bureau, trying to track this man. I haven't had the opportunity to do anything remotely amusing, although I've made friends with one of the regulars at Sharries' Bar. Quite a nice young chap, though by the way he talks it seems he's been through more than most. Well, we have about ten minutes before everyone else arrives, so what would you like to discuss? Anything new in the world of Booth and Brennan?"

"No." Booth said matter-of-factly, giving Wyatt a significant look meant to tell him that no, the time had not yet come.

"Nothing I would consider important, no." Brennan added, brushing the dust that had settled on her skirt off her lap. The room seemed like it wasn't used very often.

"Well, I thought I'd mention to you that I ran into a very old acquaintance of mine and extend my invitation for a few drinks after this afternoon's most likely long-winded and incredibly dull meeting. I suspect that the agents in charge will want to blither on about ways and means, while I sit there and wonder what the devil my half-hour speech about the depths of his mind have to do with anything. But, such is life, I suppose."

"Who's the acquaintance?" Brennan asked. She didn't know too much about Wyatt's life, and as always, was curious.

"Dr. Gregory House." Wyatt said, grinning. The short time that they had had together in England had given him a lot of memories, most good. Dealing with the adolescent's overbearing, rules-obsessed, frequently abusive father had been no walk in the park, though. It had been one of the only things they hadn't been able to bond over, he having had a relatively stable family life. The two teenagers had both shared a love of music and knowledge, and it wasn't uncommon to see them sitting on a river bank, writing songs on their acoustic guitars.

"Never heard of him." Booth said, stretching his arms out. It had been a long drive from D.C., but they hadn't been able to take a flight into New Jersey on such short notice, and in any case, Booth preferred to have his standard FBI SUV. He was tired as hell, and the last thing he needed was a long meeting.

"He's a highly esteemed diagnostician." Brennan told him, her eyes sparkling with admiration. "Dr. House is supposed to be very insightful and incredibly brilliant."

"Well, he certainly is all of those things, but I have to warn you, he's a bit of an ass." Wyatt said, chuckling to himself. That was one thing he knew for sure hadn't changed.

"How much of an ass are we talking here?" Booth asked. He knew that Brennan didn't deal well with unpleasant people, and he didn't want to get into a fight defending her. Especially since she would get angry at him for being such an alpha male. He couldn't help it though. He seemed to have two main priorities in life now: protecting Parker and protecting Bones.

"Well, he's a bit of a bitter old man, but I'm sure he'll warm up."

The Gregory House Wyatt had known had been closed off, drinking heavily and partying until he passed out, but he had always been able to talk to the right people. Then again, from what Wyatt knew about chronic pain, he suspected that the infarction in his leg had affected the man considerably.

"I hope so…" Booth muttered, and Brennan frowned slightly. She suspected that his desire for pleasant bar company was not out of desire for his own enjoyment but hers. She could take care of herself. She had dealt with enough disagreeable people, hadn't she?

"Well, old teenage friends aside, is there anything you two would like to ask me about the case? Or not about the case, if you'd prefer?" Booth racked his brain. He didn't find anything he wanted to discuss with Gordon Gordon, at least not with his Bones there. She didn't need to hear any of his longing for her, not when it was obvious it would make her quite uncomfortable.

"Not at the moment, Dr. Wyatt." Brennan said, reading a quick text message. It seemed the remains were on their way to the Jeffersonian, after a slight mix up with the vehicle's driver.

"Oh, goodness, how I hate being called _Doctor _Wyatt now." the psychiatrist said, looking rather glum. A little more than glum, Booth noticed.

"Are you feeling alright there, Gordon Gordon?" the FBI agent asked. "You're looking a little pale there, maybe you're sick."

"I am taking some medication. Actually, that's where I ran into Greg; he was doing clinic duty, which I correctly imagined to be incredibly boring for such an incredible mind. He gave me some of that Tamiflu stuff, but I'm afraid it's yet to have any effect on me. I've been nauseous all day, and have an awful headache, now that you mention it."

"Should you be here, then, if you're sick?" Brennan asked. "If you have H1N1, you could pass it on to the people here."

"I've been assured everyone attending this meeting has been vaccinated." he answered.

"When's this meeting going to be over, anyway?" Booth asked, seeing three important looking people file into the room.

"I have no idea, Agent Booth." Wyatt replied. "No idea… Would you like a macaroon?" Booth looked to the bowl sitting on the center of the conference table. He reached for one at the same time as Brennan, and as their hands touched, he felt a jolt of electricity. He became rather warm after their eyes met briefly, and all through the meeting, he couldn't seem to cool down.


	3. Moods and Mumblings

**Sorry for the long wait, and thanks for all of the reviews and alerts and favourites! Here's chapter 3!**

**Chapter 3: Moods and Mumblings**

"Booth!" Brennan hissed, poking her partner lightly (or what she thought was lightly) on the arm.

"Ow, geez, Bones, what'd ya do that for?" the FBI agent whispered back, massaging his injured arm. He looked around the room; nothing much had changed since he had drifted off into Dreamland. The meeting had been going on for what seemed like forever, though the yellowing clock at the front of the room told him it had only been two hours.

"Dr. Wyatt's going to speak now." she answered, gesturing to the psychiatrist who had gotten out of his chair and walked up to the front of the room. "You fell asleep; I didn't think that you should miss this."

"Yeah, I really want to hear half an hour of stuff about why the guy can't stand scented tissues." Booth grumbled, turning his attention to the front.

"I don't see what his tissue preferences have to do with anything."

"I was just- never mind. Let's listen to Gordon Gordon."

"That's what I've been trying to get you to do, Booth."

"Yeah, whatever." he mumbled. _A few more hours_, he thought, _and I can sit and have a nice drink with Bones_. He didn't know if he could make it through any more pompous speeches. He really hated briefings, especially when he didn't need to do anything except sit and listen. At least he had Brennan to keep him company. Lately, he found there were more and more things that just weren't bearable without her. _A sure sign that he had fallen for her_, he thought, and nearly groaned aloud. She was going to drive him crazy.

He was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of Wyatt's voice, so British and strikingly different than all of the American accented voices that just seemed to blend into one monotone bureaucratic drone that went on and on and on.

"So, we've heard the strategies and plans for Mr. Fredrick Walker's escape and subsequent killing sprees. We've found one set of bodies, and another set is just now being examined by Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute." He looked over and popped her a small smile before continuing. "Very little, however, has been said about the _mind_ of the man we're trying to recapture. That is where I come in. Though I do so with great reluctance, as many of you have been experiencing over the past few months, having been dragged back into this miserable business of mapping the minds of America's most maniacal, I am going to give you a brief overview of what we knew before about Mr. Walker and what I've discovered since the new bodies were identified.

"This is a man obsessed with faults and the minute details, the connections between the people in our society. While he was incarcerated, he spoke as little as possible to the other inmates, the guards, the various professionals who came to speak to him. However, I did get a chance to talk with him at length a year before he escaped, after he had been in prison for half a decade. He believes wholly in the evil of our society, and the power of wrongful deeds. The things that he has done, the various tortures he has put his victims through, mean nothing to his conscience, because he believes he is doing right. This is a man who will have no mercy on anyone who gets in his way, for he believes that they will have no mercy on him. Many people, when first looking at his victims, see no common thread, nothing that links the sets of bodies he stores together, nor anything between the various victims. He does not target blond women, or obese men, or African-Americans, or any obvious group. At first glance, he seems to be a random killer. The killings are done with very little time in between, and so, at first glance, it seems they were simply picked off a list, perhaps seen on the street and followed home through a dark alley.

"This is not the case, once in depth profiling is done on the victims. Every set of victims has a common thread. These threads deal with the dark underbelly of our race; the skeletons in our closets, the deep, dark secrets that we wish to keep to ourselves. Fredrick Walker discovers them all. He chooses an element, and through his careful detective work, finds three people who share this common theme. His first set of victims all were on antidepressants. His second set had lost their parents while teenagers. His third were parents to children born with debilitating diseases. He plans each of these in advance, searching through databases to find vulnerable people to stalk and kill. Fredrick Walker himself had a bruised childhood, peppered with all of the elements he looks for in his victims…" Booth's mind started wandering. He had been paying attention simply because it was Gordon Gordon, his friend, and he wanted to give him support, knowing this was the last place he wanted to be. But the cup of coffee he had had early that morning on the drive over had long ago worn out, and he fought hard to keep his eyes open. The little taste of sleep Brennan had pulled him out of didn't help either.

The chair was hard and entirely too small, and the small bowl of macaroons was staring tauntingly at him, mocking the racing heart and sweaty palms he had been met with when his partner had reached for one at the same time and touched his hand. It seemed that now, more than ever before, their bodies seemed to unwittingly gravitate towards each other, which could mean something, everything, or nothing at all.

He was tired of having to go over every little thing that happened between the two of them, first with the conviction that some sort of mysterious next step had been taken, then with the heavy-hearted thought that he was, once again, reading into things too much. It was annoying, really, to be thinking about her every second of every day. It would be much simpler if he was simply _with_ her every second of every day. Oh yeah, that would solve everything. If it were that simple, he would have asked to be his girlfriend a long time ago. With her, he had to wait for her to be ready, whenever that was.

He would do anything for her, and so naturally, he would wait for eternity for her to realize that he was what she had been looking for her entire life. But it would be really nice if she would hurry up and figure it out. During their trip would be nice.

"And so, in conclusion, we must not think of Fredrick Walker as a typical serial killer, but a man with a twisted sense of goodness and justice, with motives that go beyond a cold desire to kill; in short, he has a desire to 'ease' the suffering of his victims, by drawing their attention away from their hardships while he tortures and rapes them, and then finally ending their lives, cutting them off from their problems once and for all. He sees them as a kin, of sorts. He knows that what he is doing is considered morally wrong by most people, and so knows to hide his deeds as best as he can. He mustn't be thought of as a normal human being, but as one of the exceptions that must be treated with extreme caution and forethought."

Booth blinked his eyes a couple of times. Was the talk over? Hell, was the _meeting_ over? It sure seemed like it, because everyone seemed to be filing out, Brennan included.

"Booth!" she hissed, trying to get his attention for the third time that hour. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness, and she was getting tired of reminding him to pay attention. She had been listening the whole time, though she often disagreed with the conclusions that the speakers had come to. She supposed it was rather difficult for FBI agents to properly grasp complex anthropological concepts, but it was rather dull to listen to them sometimes. But she would never let her reputation get stained by falling asleep when she was supposed to be listening attentively. Then again, Booth was probably quite tired from the drive over and the examination of the remains. She, of course, had offered to drive part of the way, but being his usual alpha-male self, he wouldn't let her. If he would just let go of the outdated notion that females weren't as competent as males, he wouldn't have been asleep for half of the briefing. Then again, if he wasn't his usual alpha male self, she likely wouldn't have managed to fall in love with him. _I wish there was another term for what I feel about him_, she thought. _There's so much more to what we share than the general definition of romantic love. _If_ we share anything. I wouldn't know romantic love from whatever other couples have, in any case. _

"I'm coming, Bones, uh, just let me grab another macaroon." her partner answered, pushing himself out of the chair, but not before reaching into the bowl and taking out a treat. "These are really good!" he exclaimed upon biting into it. "We don't even _have _snacks at our briefings!"

"Booth, Dr. Wyatt is waiting for us outside the door. I'm sure he doesn't want to be late meeting Dr. House. Perhaps you should stop indulging in epicurean delights and get yourself out of the room."

"Right you are, Bones." he said, picking her jacket off the seat and putting it on for her. The action had become so familiar over the years that Brennan didn't even think about the anti-feminism of it.

"Do you know where we're going?" he asked, as they walked to the door.

"I don't know any of the bars in this area, so no; we'll have to follow Dr. Wyatt." The psychiatrist smiled at them as they walked out of the room together, Booth's hand on the small of her back.

"Ah, there you two are. I was getting worried; I thought perhaps Agent Booth had fallen prey to the beast of caffeine withdrawal."

"Drug withdrawal is not an entity, Dr. Wyatt." Brennan said. "I know there are several theories out there regarding the nature of addiction, but surely _you_ don't believe in any of that hodgepodgery. You are a highly intelligent man, even if your intelligence is wasted on a science that is so fraught with guesswork."

"Thank you for your concern, Dr. Brennan, but I was simply employing the services of the device _metaphor_." He winked at her, and she nodded in understanding. "Now, if you two wouldn't mind walking with me, the bar is just down the street. We walk back to the parking lot afterwards, although I suspect that the amount of drinking we will do tonight will not be conducive to safe, lawful driving!"

"Got a lot to talk about with your old buddy, Gordon Gordon?" Booth asked, as they exited the building together.

"Well, when one hasn't seen someone in thirty-five years, and that someone has recently stayed in a psychiatric facility, there is generally a lot of ground to cover."

"Whoa, psychiatric facility? Is this guy unstable or something?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. Like I said, he's a bit of an ass. A more extensive history would likely take longer to explain than it will to reach the bar, however, so I'll let you figure things out about Greg for yourselves. I think it's just down this street, actually. Ah, there it is!" Wyatt pointed to a bar about a block down, neon signs winking in the darkness.

"Well, this place looks cheerful!" he exclaimed as he held the door open for Booth and Brennan. "Certainly lots of holiday décor left!" Indeed, upon entering, Booth could tell that the manager hadn't bothered to take down the Christmas decorations, though it had been several weeks since the holiday. He could see a large wooden Santa peeking out of a storage box by the door, though, and was happy that the more glaring ornaments had been removed. Snowflakes peppered the windows, and large boughs of holly lined the mahogany bar.

He looked around for someone around the age of fifty but the only person he could see was a scruffily dressed man with a cane sitting on the far side, and he didn't look very doctorly. Sure enough, though, Wyatt made his way over to the curmudgeonly man and gestured to a table a few feet away. The man reluctantly got up and limped over to the table, heavily favouring his left leg. It seemed as if this man's life story would take a long time, after all.

"I wonder what happened to his right leg." Brennan whispered from his side, gesturing to the cane.

"Bones, don't point!" Booth hissed, pushing her arm down.

"Why not? It's a very effective way of identifying the object that I want you to see."

"It's rude, Bones, didn't your mother ever tell you that?"

"She might have." his partner replied, in a strange voice that he couldn't quite identify. He guided her over to the table and took her coat off as she sat down, placing it on the table as he shrugged his own off.

"Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, this is Dr. Gregory House. Greg, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan, of the Jeffersonian Institute in D.C, and her partner from the FBI, Special Agent Seeley Booth."

"I've heard of you." House said, looking at Brennan. "But I didn't think you'd be this hot in person. That picture in Scientific American doesn't do you justice at all."

"Greg…" Wyatt admonished, giving House a warning look. He rolled his eyes.

"Man, Gord, you're just like Wilson. Be nice to women, don't objectify them, make me tenderloin with au jus, blah blah blah."

"You cook?" Wyatt asked, looking surprised, completely forgetting about House's earlier comments. Booth scowled. Give the man something vaguely related to food, and he forgets about everything. Hadn't they been going in the direction of berating the man for being so insensitive?

"It's okay, Booth." Brennan said quietly, correctly guessing why his face had gotten so dark. "I'm quite used to men judging my physical appearance, and it doesn't bother me. Actually, it's rather flattering."

"Bones, you shouldn't have to hear that you're a beautiful woman from some slimy guy like that." Booth said, grasping her hand. She smiled her small smile at him, and his heart lifted just a little bit.

"Did I just hear you call me slimy? That's a very nice thing to say about someone you've just met, you know." House sarcastically. "I feel so moved."

"Being labeled as slimy actually isn't a good thing, Dr. House." Brennan told him. "I believe being referred to as 'slimy' means that you're loathsome, vile and untrustworthy, which are not generally good things for a person to be."

"Is she for real?" House asked Wyatt, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, she is." Booth said defensively, grasping her hand protectively.

"Calm down, Macho Man, I'm not taking a crack at your girlfriend."

"We're just partners." the two said at the same time, earning a chuckle from Wyatt which he hastily covered up as a cough.

"Right." the diagnostician said. "Point me to a set of professional partners who hold hands and take off each other's coats. Oh wait, there aren't any. They're all sleeping together."

"Dr. House is a heavy user of sarcasm, correct?" Brennan asked Wyatt, ignoring House's remarks. "That may pose some problems in our conversations, as I am not very apt at that particular speech device."

"You don't say." House said drily.

"Yes, Greg is very fond of sarcasm." Wyatt said. "But, like you, he also sets great store in logic and reason."

"Perhaps we will be able to communicate properly, then."

"I'm sure we will." House said, waggling his eyebrows. Booth scowled still deeper, and Wyatt smiled at him knowingly.

"The eyebrow movement was meant to emphasize the fact that our communication could be of a sexual nature, correct?" she asked. "That's generally what rapidly rising and falling eyebrows means, right Booth?" His only answer was to mumble something incoherent, which Brennan wisely decided not to expand on.

"Yes, I'd really like to get into your pants." House said, after a long pause. Brennan looked at him puzzlingly.

"I was answering the question." he explained, gesturing for a waitress. "Can we get some drinks for my bar companions here?"

"Unfortunately, I think your crouching tiger of a partner would likely rip me to shreds if I so much as asked you out on a date." Brennan smiled, having been briefly reminded of Tony. If only they could have stayed in Vegas for a bit longer, maybe things could have gone a little farther between him and 'Roxie'.

"And I'd really like to keep my hidden dragon in one piece, thank you very much."

The forensic anthropologist pondered his comments for a few moments. Booth always was very protective of her and didn't like her going on dates, but she had always seen that as a need to protect her, a very 'partnerly' thing. But maybe he _was_ jealous. In that case, maybe she could…

"What d'you want to drink, Bones?" Booth asked her, snapping her out of her thoughts.

"I'd like a scotch, please. And I'm paying for it, Booth. You picked up the tab last time."

"They're seriously 'just partners'?" House asked his old friend in a stage whisper, looking at the pair of them, wide-eyed.

"Yes." Wyatt answered, smiling. "Professional to a tee, these two, Greg, You won't find a higher conviction rate anywhere else in the country."

"What happened to your right thigh?" Brennan asked, out of the blue. The mildly amused look was frozen on House's face. Great. Ms. Literal was going to start asking him questions, completely unabashed.

"Bones!" Booth hissed. "What'd you go and ask that for?"

"I knew it wasn't from a skeletal problem or a congenital defect, and I wanted to know why he limped, so I thought I'd ask." his partner answered innocently, her whisper about as quiet as a stampede of elephants.

"Well, there's something called _discretion_, Bones, and it's used when there are certain things that are best left untouched."

"Like sex, religion, and politics?"

"Yeah, like those things."

"Well, I've never really understood the need to taboo certain things. Was it a sports injury?" she continued, unaffected by the looks that both Booth and Wyatt were giving her.

"Yeah." House answered sarcastically. "I used to be a champion sword thrower, and one day one got lodged in there, so…"

"That is facetious. An injury like that wouldn't cause that kind of limp."

"It was an infarction." House mumbled. "An aneurysm clotted in my right thigh, leading to infarction and it wasn't discovered for three days. There was muscle death. They wanted to amputate, but I… wasn't willing to lose my leg. So they did a bypass, and I went under to sleep through the pain. Then my girlfriend, who had medical proxy, decided it would be _much_ better just to remove the muscle and leave me a cripple in chronic pain for the rest of my life, so she and my doctor, who, coincidentally, is my boss right now, cut it out while I was in the coma. I wake up with half a leg, story time's over."

"That explanation is much more likely." Brennan said, oblivious to Booth's meaningful stares. Well, _duh_, it was the right explanation, the look on the doctor's face and his subdued tone gave it all away. It seemed that the callous middle-aged man _did _have a weakness.

"Alright, now that we've all gotten to know each other, why don't we all leave?" Booth asked.

"Agent Booth, don't be such a party pooper." Wyatt said, smiling at the morose look on the FBI agent's face. He obviously did not enjoy the attention Brennan was paying to House, and the reason seemed to be obvious to everyone except her. "We haven't even finished our drinks, for Heaven's sake. We've only been here for ten minutes."

"Booth, we don't even have any paperwork to complete at the moment. The bodies are being shipped back to the Jeffersonian right now, so there's no evidence to go through." Brennan said, wondering why Booth was in such a hurry. There certainly wasn't any explanation she could come up with.

"I'm just tired, that's all." Booth muttered, sipping his drink. Wyatt was the odd one out in the group, being the only one without a glass of scotch. He instead was nursing a dry martini, earning many chuckles from House.

"Bodies?" the diagnostician asked, semi-interested. "How many are there?"

"Three, as is usual for the killer." Brennan answered. "All three are in late-stage decomposition."

Booth's mind wandered once again as his partner discussed her work with the cranky doctor, who seemed to be pretty damn interested, although he couldn't tell if the interest came from a desire to sleep with her or not. Men like him were extremely hard to read, but gave off a heavy air of assdom wherever they went.

Well, great. She had found someone who actually could stand more than five minutes of her squint-speak, and he wasn't bad looking or ancient to boot. Just when things were starting to look sunnier between them, a big, fat raincloud came and rained on his day. Well, maybe now was a good time to catch up with Gordon Gordon.

"So, Gordon Gordon, how have you been?" he asked, taking another sip of his scotch.

"Oh, alright, despite the fact that I haven't cooked for anyone in fours months. This case has been rather weary, but I suppose it will get better, having you two around, and Greg, of course."

"Yeah, loads better." Booth mumbled, giving House a dirty look as Brennan showed him the spot on his arm that the woman's arm had been fractured. The doctor gave his partner a flirtatious smile, and he was forlorn to see it returned. His Bones never gave him practical demonstrations of injuries to the victims, she just rambled on in technical terms, forgetting that he rarely had more than a clue about what she was saying. His Bones never gave him such a blatantly seductive smile; she didn't even feel that way about him. His Bones didn't giggle loudly at the jokes he made, she just pointed out the inaccuracies in everything he said.

Well, if she wanted to be the woman she had never been for him with this guy, then that was just fine with him. He would just sit in his hotel room and mope for a few hours. That should fix everything.

"Greg was always a lady killer." Wyatt said, reading Booth's mind. "Never kept any of them around, though."

"Yeah, well, all it takes is one bad relationship, and poof!, she's back in her shell again." he mumbled.

"I don't think you're giving Dr. Brennan enough credit, Agent Booth." the psychiatrist said. "She's grown a lot over the past few years; she can do _normal_ people things, all thanks to you."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Booth muttered.

"Of course; you wouldn't want the fruit of all your hard labour to go to another man, would you?"

"I just don't want her to get hurt, and this guy doesn't seem the most delicate."

"Why don't you let her reach out and explore on her own? Perhaps she'll discover something she didn't know before."

"Like what, that I'm…" He looked at his partner, who was so deeply engaged in conversation that he was sure she wouldn't hear him if he whispered in the loud bar. "In love with her?" he finished.

"Perhaps, perhaps she'll discover that she really _doesn't_ just want sex anymore. Perhaps she'll figure out that you've been there, waiting for her, the whole time."

"If only." Booth muttered. "If only…"

"I suggest, once again, the remedy of time. When she's ready, she'll be able to do what she's been-" Wyatt stopped abruptly in the middle of his sentence.

"She's been _what_, Gordon?" Booth asked. "Gordon?" The psychiatrist had gone pale, paler than he had been before, and that had been pretty darn white.

"Uh, Doc?" Booth asked House. "I think something's wrong with Gordon Gordon."

"He didn't choke on his martini, did he? Those girly drinks can be pretty nasty, let me tell you."  
"No, he just stopped talking in the middle of his sentence." Booth said, gesturing to Wyatt, who hadn't resumed his talking or returned to his normal colour.

"Booth, you better move, I think he's going to-" House's warning had come too late. As soon as the words had come out of the doctor's mouth, Booth was covered in vomit. He spat some out of his mouth, then looked at his fingers.

"That tasted like… blood." the FBI agent said, showing House. The diagnostician examined it for a second, then yelled to the bartender.

"We're going to need an ambulance in here!" he shouted, looking to where Gordon Gordon Wyatt had been just a few minutes earlier. "We've got an unconscious fifty-two year old male vomiting blood!" Booth looked down at his friend. He felt concern, of course, and fear for the man, but he couldn't help but wonder: what exactly had Brennan been wanting to do?


	4. Mugs and Maturity

**Yes, yet another late update. But, I promise we're going to get somewhere very soon! Thanks for all of the reviews, too!**

**Chapter 4: Mugs and Maturity  
**

"Sorry I'm late." House said as he walked into the loft, carrying a bag from the butcher's. Wilson looked up from his _Oncology Monthly_ and rolled his eyes.

"You are many things, House, but sorry is not one of them. What held you up this time? Another plague in the hospital? Or perhaps you convinced Cuddy to give you a quickie before heading off home to her little family."

House scowled at the word _family_, and then realized what he had done. Hopefully Wilson hadn't noticed, otherwise he would be treated to another thousand lectures. After the long day he had had, that was the last thing he needed.

"Got a patient." the diagnostician muttered, walking into the kitchen.

"And? Usually you go home right at five, if they're not dying. It's half-past nine. If they _were_ dying, you'd still be there."

"Ran into an old friend." House replied cheerfully, opening the fridge. "We won't have time to marinate the steak, by the way. I don't want to eat at midnight. You wanna order in some pizza?"

"Don't blame me; I thought you were coming home at five. It's your fault you refuse to answer your phone And no, I don't really want to order pizza, seeing as we have a fully stocked fridge and pantry." If House wanted to go back to ordering in Chinese every night… well, the six-hundred dollar grocery bill might just have something to say about that.

"Well, think of something quick and filling, I'm starved." Of course. House was always starving. That seemed to be a universal constant. Unless, of course, he was working intently on a case or in withdrawal. Vomiting never seemed to increase one's appetite, funnily enough.

"Is that liquor on your breath?" They would occasionally have a glass together, but Wilson had forbidden House from going to bars without him, fearing the worst, as always.

"I only had a glass, Wilson, and _no_, it wasn't in my office, listening to Frank Sinatra, moaning about Cuddy."

"Your old friend? Generally when you meet up with someone for the first time in a while, you have more than one glass." House looked down and closed the fridge, then started to rummage around the cupboards.

"Chicken in white wine and shallots with green beans and penne?" he asked, blatantly changing the subject.

There was a large, uncomfortable pause, as House went about preparing the meal, getting out a cutting board, selecting a good knife and going into the pantry for the shallots.

Wilson sighed, after several fruitless attempts at catching his friend's eye.

"He's your patient, isn't he?" Wilson asked finally, as House went into the fridge for the chicken.

"Who, Brad Pitt? I have to tell you, Jimmy, I'm really not digging that beard. It looks like he has a grey octopus growing on his face." House said, as he started slicing the chicken.

"Was he a good friend?" Wilson asked, ignoring the deflection. It was best just to go on as if House had actually answered the question.

"As good as friends get when you're in England with your parents, staying in the army base, sneaking out to party every other night." Ah, another one of House's foreign stays. He did remember hearing something about England, but nothing about friends. Well, come to think of it, he didn't really know much about House's travels, or his childhood, for that matter.

"Sounds like good times. What's his name? What does he do? How long is he in Princeton for?"  
"Gordon Wyatt, FBI shrink, until his case is solved. Although he might die, so maybe before then. What kind of salad do you want?"

"Wait, what are his symptoms?" Wilson asked, persisting. Sometimes you just had to keep picking away at the man until he gave up, or left. The first option was generally preferable.

"Nausea, fatigue, headaches, bloody vomit and diarrhea, abdominal pain, fever, anemia. Chase is doing his workup." The chicken went into the sauté pan, hissing as the cold meat hit the hot oil.

"What about kidney and liver function? And for God's sake, House, turn on the damn fan! Remember last time, when you left the risotto in the pan to see the fire down the street and nearly made our own alarm go off?"

"Like I said, Chase is doing the workup. The team's going to phone me if they find anything. And that wasn't my fault, Wilson; you never showed me how to use the fan." He shook the pan, flipping the poultry, before adding the shallots and green beans.  
"Right. Shouldn't you be with the patient if he's your friend?"

"Gord told me to go home and get something to eat; I may have complained that I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast on the ride over to the hospital. You know I'll check on him in the morning; besides, he has a couple friends with him now. One of them's a real looker, too, but she's mine, Wilson, don't even think about it."

"I wasn't, actually. How long's that bocconcini been in the fridge for? We should probably use it up, considering what happened the last time we let something putrefy in there."

"Might I remind you that that was your fault, Wilson? Somebody was too weak to get out of his bed to get the goat cheese out of there while I was in surgery with that Irish guy."

"Once again, I apologize for being weak because of the recovery from the liver transplant. And, no, you weren't at the hospital the whole time, so you definitely had the opportunity to get the cheese out of there."

"Tomato, tomahto, Jimmy. Do you want spinach or field greens for the salad?" the older man asked, going into the fridge.

"Field greens."

"Good, because spinach was starting to get old; I don't care what Popeye says. I expect you'll want to meet my mysterious long lost friend to unravel more of the mystery that is Greg House, MD, so let's organize this in a way that works for both of us. Noon sound good for you? We can eat lunch in his room, and hopefully he won't go into cardiac arrest or anything. Always a risk when eating with sick people." He took the greens out, along with a bottle of white.

"Noon _is_ clear for me tomorrow." Wilson admitted. "But what makes you think that I'm dying to meet this guy?"

"Wilson, you want to meet half the people in my life, if only to know one more reason why I'm so screwed up. I'm just making this easier for all of us, so I don't find the two of you cozied up in a supply closet, sharing bread recipes and war stories. I don't think I could take the betrayal." The wine went into the pan, and a huge cloud of steam rose up, causing Wilson to cough as the alcohol entered his airway.

"W-Wait, you're making this sound like we're going to have a…cough, actual adult conversation." he said, sputtering. "Use the high setting on the fan, House! And turn the burner down; you're going to turn the sauce into a black mess!"

"Oh, come on, Wilson, way to spoil everything. I was going to stick to small talk and hope that some great exciting thing would interrupt us before we go to the juicy stuff. And stop backseat cooking, too."

"So there_ is_ juicy stuff?" the oncologist asked, ignoring House's comment.

"Yeah, a lot of babes in England, all wanting to hook up with the hot American army brat." House said sarcastically. "Had to beat them off with a stick." He reluctantly turned the heat down, stirring the contents of the pan, before getting the container of leftover pasta out of the fridge.

"I thought you were always the life of the party."

"I was. Didn't fill out 'till I was sixteen, though, and by then I was back in the good ol' US of A. No woman wants to jump a shrimp. I sure could drink, though. And all the cool drugs came out in the seventies. You wanted the bocconcini, right?"

"Yeah. Use the Balsamic dressing." House rolled his eyes. Duh. "So, your friend, is he a nice guy? Or did you attract more of your type?"

"Yeah, he's a decent guy. Ridiculously English, too, though apparently he's been living among the Yankees for quite some time. And seeing as he's a shrink, you can have another member of the Let's Fix House Club. I think that'll bring the numbers up to two, now that Cuddy's lost interest in me."

"Cuddy hasn't lost interest-"

"Please. If she starts acting like she cares about me, I'm going to think she wants to jump me again. Can't have that. Who knows what a steamy affair with yours truly would do to her epic relationship with Lucas. Hence, no interest." He dished the pasta out onto two plates, putting the salad into bowls.

"She cares about you, House. She just has… a funny way of showing it."

"Yes, of course. One of those funny ways just happened to be sentencing me to a six hour round trip to meet the housekeeper."

"She's worried-"

"I know, she's protecting herself, yadda, yadda. Heard it all before, actually. But, funnily enough, we weren't talking about our dear Dean of Medicine. We were talking about Gordon Wyatt, and the meddling you're going to start doing. Go ahead, is all I'm saying. You're going to do it anyway, might as well get it over with."

"Very mature of you."

"Yes, I just _ooze_ maturity these days. You want beer to drink?"

"Sure. I'm not setting the table, by the way. It's your night."

"It's nine-thirty; we're eating at the counter. And it's _your_ night to do the dishes."

"Maybe you should do them, seeing you're not setting the table."

"I made dinner! Does that mean nothing to you?"

"House, all you did was sauté some things and put other things in a bowl. When you spend all day slaving over a roast like I did on Christmas, then you can be exempt for dish duty."  
"Not fair, Wilson, my leg was hurting that day. Better present than the records I got from you, if you ask me." House said as he glared at Wilson, gesturing for him to sit down.

"Hey, it's not my fault they were all scratched when I got them in the mail!" He inwardly cringed at the thought of the Christmas Day disaster. He had found House six rare vintage records, in perfect condition, only to find that they wouldn't play when they had tried them out.  
"Yeah, but it's your fault for not checking on them before giving them to me. Imagine my disappointment when I got nothing but a bunch of useless black circles on the most wonderful day of the year!" House tried to shove a humungous pile of pasta into his mouth, and was rewarded with most of it dripping down his face. He scowled at the offending food. Sometimes life just didn't _want_ to go right.

"Yeah, that's _all_ you got. Might I remind you that Foreman got you a mug, Chase got you another mug, Taub got you four coasters and Thirteen got you a set of martini glasses?"

"I'm pretty sure they did that just to screw with me, so that doesn't really count." He rolled his eyes at the presents his team had gotten him. Like he would ever ask for such domestic things. Like he would ask for anything at all, actually.  
"Your mother got you a nice sweater."

"Which _you _ended up wearing." Wilson blushed.

"That was just one time! I was cold, and it was the only thing that wasn't in the wash."

"Maybe because you hadn't done laundry all day because you spent the day after Christmas in the Cancer Ward. I stand by what I said. A bunch of useless black circles and a hangover from our binge the night before."

"You mean YOUR binge. I only had-"

"_One_ bottle of Jack, I know. _You_ got like, fifteen _million _presents! And you even got a card from Cuddy and Lucas!" The oncologist looked down in shame.

"Oh, Wilson, don't look so sad. It wasn't your fault that I was looking for the check that I accidentally threw out in the trash. You shouldn't have put it in the garbage, by the way. Hiding it between your bottles of hair mousse would have been much more effective."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time. They should have given you a card, House; maybe it was meant for both of us."

"No, it said James Wilson very clearly on it. If I were you, I wouldn't have liked it anyway, anatomically incorrect reindeer aside. It's no fun to get something that your friend doesn't. Then you feel kinda weird. Or at least, that's what I'm told."

"House, the pasta's getting cold."

"Right. Eating. Forgot about that. I was just getting so worked up about the season of giving again, thanks to you." He shoved another enormous mouthful in, and was met with more success this time. Wilson rolled his eyes at him, and he stuck his tongue out in return.

"If you want proper presents next year, maybe you should work on being nicer to people."

"I'll pass, thank you. I'm content in my misanthropy."

"I'm sure. This is good, by the way."

"I know; I'm pretty good at cooking, in case my culinary binge a few months ago didn't give you any indication. And I'm still cursing you for making me share the cooking duty, by the way. A man needs to kick back and watch women's wrestling when he gets home after a long day at work."

"Right." Wilson said, clearing up the dishes. "There's a football game, if you're interested?"

"Sure." House replied, and limped over to the living room.

"I can't believe you bought this thing." Wilson said, for what seemed to be the umpteenth time, indicating the garish orange couch they were sitting on.

"It's comfortable, Wilson, live with it." He turned on the TV, and they watched the game, sipping their beers together in contentment.

***

"We should find a better pizza place." Brennan said, as she closed the cardboard box and put it in the garbage in their hotel room. It was, of course, just their luck that there had been one room left, not two, not three, but one, seeing as there was some sort of huge medical conference in Princeton, and all of the hotels near Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital were booked solid. Except for _one_ room. Luckily (or not so luckily, as what Booth would describe as the devil on her shoulder would say), there were two beds, so there was no chance of any awkward bed-sharing. But there would be bathroom sharing. That, she was NOT looking forward to.

"Aww, come on, Bones, it was the only place open near to the Wal-Mart you insisted on visiting. There would have been better options if we had left the hospital before ten-thirty, and gone straight for the food, but no, you _had_ to have your shampoo and your body wash and all of that other girly crap."

"Might I remind you that you also had several things to buy there? Neither of us was prepared for an overnight stay."

"I was." Booth said proudly. "I always have my emergency supply of clothes in the SUV. You never know when you'll get stuck in the middle of nowhere. I just figured you'd appreciate the deodorant I forgot to replace."

"Mmm." she said absentmindedly. Was that what made Booth smell so good? No, it had to be some sort of cologne. The scent was more multi-faceted than any sort of antiperspirant. No, he had to wear one of those nice, masculine ones. Maybe it came in a nice brown bottle, thick and glassy. She would have to figure it out. It wasn't likely that he kept any in his emergency supplies, so she would have to figure it out when they got back. Maybe another bottle would make a nice birthday gift for him. Would that be too much, or too little? It would depend on how much it costs. She would have to ask Angela about that one.

"Uh, Bones? Earth to Bones!" Booth's voice brought her out of her thoughts of cologne, and she felt mildly embarrassed that she had gotten so out of touch with reality over the way he smelled. Wasn't that something those flimsy girls in romances did when they were overly infatuated with their rugged, forbidden lovers?

"I was just trying to think if I knew any good pizza places around here, Booth. I've been to Princeton several times."

"Well, I knew a good place downtown about ten years ago, but I don't know if it's there anymore. Besides, we won't be here for too long, will we?"

"Well, I'll have to go back to the lab to examine the remains, but even if Dr. Wyatt's illness is diagnosed quickly, it'll take time for the treatment to work."

"Yeah, but as soon as we know he's going to be alright…"

"I suppose that's true. Cam wants me back in D.C. as soon as possible, though, so I'll have to leave you here with Dr. Wyatt. Would that be alright with you?"

Yeah, sure, leave him alone in Princeton with a sick friend and a grumpy old cripple, that sounded _just_ fine to him.

"Sounds good, Bones. Now, do you want the bed by the window, or the bed by the door?" Either option could pose a risk. If someone was to enter through the door, Brennan could be safe on the other side of him. But if they went through the window… well, it was a tough call to make.

"I find it hard to sleep while facing the window, and I generally sleep on my left side, so perhaps I should take the bed by the door. That way, I will be facing your body rather than the window." And, she would get a nice view of him sleeping, too. Admiring his toned body was always a nice perk, if only from an anthropological sense.

"I'll take the window bed, then." There was more space between the beds and the door than the beds and the window, so maybe that was a better option. Plus, he liked to sleep on his right side, and that would give him a good view of her sleeping. Not that his infatuation had become so pathetic that he was reduced to obsessively watching her sleep. No, that would be _ridiculous_. He was an FBI Agent, for God's sake; surely he was better than that?

"Well, I'm going to take a quick shower and get ready for bed, if you don't mind."

Brennan's 'quick' shower turned out to last upwards of a half hour, so Booth busied himself with the pile of files he had waiting for him on the case. The FBI wanted him to familiarize himself with all of the victims, so he had a lot of reading to do. Of course, Brennan had already finished reading everything, taking in every detail about each of the victims. Fortunately, going through all of the information didn't take that long, but unfortunately, his partner still wasn't out of the shower.

"Bones!" he called, knocking on the door. "Bones, what the hell are you doing in there? I need to take a shower too, you know!"

"I'll be right out, Booth, I haven't been in here for that long!" came the answer back, and he couldn't help smiling. It was nice to hear her voice after such a long silence without it… well, okay, a half hour without it, and it was becoming more and more difficult to spend time without her. He had even been planning on inviting her to see a movie with him and Parker on the weekend, before the case had taken over. Now, however he had bigger things to worry about.

"Bones, you're going to use up all the hot water!" he replied, rolling his eyes.

"Booth, it's highly unlikely that my shower would deplete the hotel of its entire hot water supply."

"Just, hurry up, okay? I'm really tired, and I need to get some sleep."

"Of course, Booth, I forgot. I'll be out soon." He noticed how her tone had changed as soon as he had told her he needed to get some rest, and smiled again. It was nice that she cared for him as much as she did. If he could just get her to go that one step further, everything would be perfect.

He wondered how long they would have to stay in Princeton for. If more bodies got discovered, that would probably lengthen their stay ever further. It was hard enough that he couldn't see Parker until he was sure Gordon Gordon was in the clear. He hoped that whatever he had wasn't too serious. But, from his experience, vomiting blood was never a trivial thing.

The four doctors (four!) he had met appeared to be nice enough. One of them was quite pretty, but of course, didn't come anywhere near his Bones. What was everyone calling her, Thirteen? It must have been some sort of inside thing. He liked the short doctor's sense of humour (Dr. Taub, was that it?), even if his large nose was rather distracting. The black doctor, Dr. Foreman, seemed to act like a sort of leader for all of them, even though it was obvious they resented that fact. He was surprised to learn that the Australian doctor was the man that Gordon Gordon had met at the bar, though. He had to admit, however, that Robert Chase did seem miserable about something. Booth had even ended up meeting the Dean of Medicine, who, he had to admit, was pretty hot. He had always had a thing for professionals in tight clothing, but again, none of the women he met ever held a candle to Dr. Temperance Brennan. Besides, he had caught House checking out Cuddy's ass quite wistfully as she left the room. He didn't like to go for other men's women.

"I'm out of the shower, Booth, you can use the bathroom." Brennan telling him that she was out of the shower didn't prepare him for the sight of his partner standing before him, a fluffy towel wrapped around her body, barely going down past the top of her thighs. Yes, his partner had really nice legs. And there was something about a woman standing dressed only in a towel, hair dripping, the scent of her shampoo wafting out of the bathroom, that totally turned him on. So yes, perhaps a cold shower would be necessary.

"Okay, Bones, you go to bed, don't bother waiting for me. You look pretty tired, yourself." He heaved himself off of the bed, grabbing his overnight bag. Yup, the bathroom was pretty perfumed with her shampoo. As he turned the shower on and climbed in, he couldn't help but think of the fact that Brennan had been there, naked, just a few minutes earlier. He turned the temperature down a few degrees lower, scolding himself. He wasn't going to think of his partner like that while she was just a few short feet away from him, and he _certainly_ wasn't going to use her shampoo.

When he came back into the room, some ten minutes later, he was greeted with the sight of his partner sleeping peacefully a few feet away, her hair spread around on the pillow. Before he could resist the temptation, he walked over to her and placed a kiss on her forehead, then climbed into his own bed, and completely missed the smile that had graced her features after he had placed his lips on her smooth, recently moisturized skin. Not so asleep after all. But, after the small gesture of affection, she sure felt peaceful.

**Now, I have a bit of a dilemma. I can't decide what my pairing for House is going to be, so if people have any preferences, it would be nice to know them. Thanks for reading!**


	5. Middle Age and Malfunction

**Ack! I still can't figure out my pairing for House, and I had an entire week in Palm Springs to think it over. Spoilers for Bones have been occupying me, I guess. When I first entered the House fandom, I was crazy about House/Cuddy, but the magic has been lost this season, I think. And I loved House/Stacy, but that's been over for a long time. I also love, love, love House/Wilson. So, House/Cuddy/Wilson or OC, I'm thinking. But no House/Cameron! No! Though Cameron **_**is**_** a good character. I think she'll be coming back in my fic, because as annoying as she is, I miss her hyper-morality. I hope they aren't going to channel her role into Thirteen, because I don't like Thirteen and I don't like her character. Bleh. And I realized that I made a really silly mistake back in chapter 1. House and Wyatt were friends back in **_**'74**_**, not '64. Stupid confuddled brain. Anyway, on with the chapter!**

**Chapter 5: Middle-Age and Malfunction  
**

"So, you're Gordon Wyatt?" Wilson asked, sitting down with House beside Gordon Wyatt's bed. His and House's morning had been relatively uneventful, but the oncologist had been up to his ears in paperwork, and had just barely made it to the noon lunch that House had set up. To be honest, he had absolutely no idea what House's old friend would be like, as 'really British' wasn't exactly much to go on. And for some reason, the fact that he was a psychiatrist for the FBI unnerved him, although he had never been uncomfortable with shrinks before. But the smile that was on the face of the man in the bed didn't help him feel any better. It was sort of smile Wilson gave to patients when they didn't quite understand what they were doing with their treatment. And somehow lunch didn't seem to go well with any sort of treatment.

"I believe so, yes." the older man answered, directing his smile more towards Wilson. His accent was certainly _very_ English. It reminded Wilson of the trip he had taken with his family just before he graduated med school, and the old man with the greasy white beard in the pub asking him what a schoolboy was doing with a bottle of beer. It warmed him up in a way he couldn't explain. "I don't think I'm old enough to have taken leave of my senses, although I do tend to deal with people who have. I'm fairly certain that my doubtless myriad of problems hasn't muddled my sense of identity."

He could see why House liked him, at least. Though the man seemed rather more cheerful than anyone he tended to hang around, the way he spoke told Wilson that he was a witty, intelligent person, exactly the type that House respected and enjoyed. "You must be James Wilson. I'm afraid Greg has been reluctant to say much about you. Actually, he's been reluctant to say much about anything. That has always been in his nature, I suppose. Though he may have mentioned in passing that you fancied yourself quite the amateur psychologist." Wilson blushed, scowling at his best friend briefly, before setting his eyes back on Wyatt. Trust House to give him a bad reputation before they even got introduced.

"Nothing wrong with that, no, though the problems begin when self-righteousness enters into the equation." the psychiatrist continued, a wiseman's twinkle in his eye. "Then, you see, the message is lost in the other person's indigence. A lesson I learned the hard way, I'm afraid. I hear you're an oncologist, too. Hard job, especially for someone who wants to fix every person they encounter. I'm sure you do the best you can, as do the rest of us. But enough about you, let's hear about Greg! How has the poor chap been? I haven't seen him in thirty-five years, so I daresay he's changed."

"House has been… House-like." Wilson said slowly, still trying to process what Wyatt had been saying. He was pretty sure the man hadn't been trying to insult him, but the ease at which he had dissected his inner personality frightened him slightly. And that had just been casual conversation. He certainly didn't want Gordon Wyatt as his shrink.

"Ah, of course! _House_-like! How deliciously specific, Dr. Wilson! Well, I can definitely say during the short time I knew him he was quite _Greg_-like. I'm starting this off serious, by the way. Doubtless Greg has some diabolical plan to stick to small talk, waiting for an excuse to end our impromptu heart-to-heart before it gets anywhere. But I think that perhaps some real discussion would be of use, before I slip into an inexplicable coma, diverting all of your attentions to my acute ailment."

Wilson sat there, gaping at the nonchalance with which the psychiatrist had single-handedly dismissed all of the yet-to-be-spoken formalities and bypassed the small-talk stage. He thought that he was skilled with manipulation and conversation, but apparently the real masters were the shrinks. His respect for the man grew, as his sense of foreboding became more prominent. Despite what he liked people to think, he rarely discussed his inner feelings and emotions, and the prospect of having a deep discussion about himself with House terrified him.

"Uh, okay." the oncologist said, avoiding House's eye. He had yet to speak, and Wilson didn't really feel like looking at his best friend and seeing the discomfort that was doubtless on the diagnostician's face. If he hated talking about his true feelings, then House, champion of evasions and deflections, must loath it a thousand times more.

"So, you two, where did you meet?" Wyatt asked cheerfully, choosing to ignore the awkwardness that had settled in the room.

House spoke for the first time. "A medical conference, after Wilson's first wife. I bailed him out of jail, and the rest is long, messy, dysfunctional history." He didn't explain further, choosing to stay silent, and Wilson found he didn't have anything else to add to his answer. Wyatt didn't leave the room silent for long, though.

"Greg must have found you quite interesting, to bail you out of jail, then. He doesn't make friends with many people. We met purely by chance, actually. I was buying music at the record store, and I accidentally bumped into him while rounding the corner. It turned out that I had grabbed the last copy of the record that he wanted, so I suggested he come back to my house to listen to it. It was phenomenal how much we had in common, actually. Even at fifteen, he had incredible ambition to enter the medical field, and I was also entertaining the notion of medical school, though I was geared more towards the mysteries of the mind, whereas his interest rested in obscure diseases and syndromes." Wilson nodded; that sounded like House, alright. He must have met Wyatt not long after his experience in Japan with the 'janitor'. "We both shared a heavy interest in music, too. We started a band, though it only ever had members other than us for a few weeks at the most, and we never came up with a name, but jamming with Greg got me very interested in the musical field. When he left, I had just graduated from high school, and he had just barely gotten enough credit for all of his schooling in various countries to pass the tenth grade. Academic studies caught my attention for a while, but the siren call of music drew me away from university and I found myself portraying the glam rock alter-ego, Noddy Comet, for three splendid years."

"I listened to you." House said, with what seemed to be a pretty damn genuine grin on his face. Few things Wilson knew were able to make House as happy as he seemed now, and he was pretty damn glad one of them had come back into his life. If there was one thing House needed, it was happiness with no strings attached. "Bedded a beautiful woman to one of your songs, too. It was playing on radio, God knows why. I didn't think anyone still listened to your music in the eighties." Judging by the contented yet melancholy look on House's face, Wilson guessed the woman to be one Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine. He voiced his thought aloud.

"All I say is 'beautiful woman' and you jump straight to Cuddy?" House replied, giving him a look.

"Well, was it?" he pressed, seeing Wyatt's amused look out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes." he admitted reluctantly. "But you make it seem like Cuddy's the most attractive woman I've ever slept with."

"She probably is." Wilson retorted.

"I'll have to think about that one." House mused, looking out of the window absentmindedly. "So, after your whirlwind success as the bisexual spaceman from the planet Dewd, how'd you get back into school? I didn't think that the universities would be so open to letting the evil influences of rock'n'roll into their prize institutions." he asked Wyatt, not wanting to ruminate on his boss any longer. Before he knew it, Wilson would be telling Gord about their history and how he had failed miserably with her so many times. The last thing he needed was another pompous pep-talk from a man who seemed to be equally unlucky in the love department. At least _he_ didn't sleep with all of the women he met or marry the ones that caught his fancy.

"Quite an accident, really. I ran into one of my old professors at one of my gigs, and he suggested that I go to medical school. I had only done a year of undergrad studies, but I had excelled at his biology class, and apparently he had heard that I showed real promise in psychology too. I rethought my life a little, and much to the displeasure of my fans, I went back to school. The field of psychiatry grabbed me, and before I knew it, I was diagnosing crazies with some of the best minds in the field. My success caught the eye of the FBI, and so started a long career helping track down serial killers."

"Your academic history sounds almost as convoluted as mine." House commented, taking a bite of Wilson's sandwich while the other man wasn't looking. The younger man scowled at his friend, snatching back the sub before House could put another monster dent in his sub.

"I got you your Reuben, why do you want my sandwich?" Wilson asked, putting his tray on a side table, far away from roving House hands.

"Stolen food tastes better." the diagnostician replied, reluctantly taking a bite of his own sandwich.

"He must really like you, Dr. Wilson. He only steals the food of people he doesn't think are complete morons, and as I'm sure you know, morons make up 99.99999% of the world."

"Yeah, make it into something nice, Gord. As I remember, you didn't like my food-filching tendencies much, either."

"Yes, but you never thought I was a _moron_. That was good enough for me." Many a time House had coerced him into buying the fish and chips, and he never failed to steal half of his chips. Of course, he had acted angry on the outside, but Greg's friendship had been more valuable to him than the couple of pounds he spent on lunch.

"A _complete _moron. I don't think there's anyone in the world without some sort of moronic tendencies. You did some pretty stupid stuff back in the teenage years, if I remember correctly."

"Judging by the amount of booze, LSD, 'shrooms and marijuana we ingested back then, I'm not sure if you _can_ remember correctly." He gave a good chuckle at that, remembering the wild partying and experimenting they had done back in the day. The Gordon Wyatt back then was quite different from the one in the hospital bed now, that was for sure.

"Yeah, but all of that kinda falls under the 'stupid' category."

"Quite true, quite true. Besides, I think we're a bit tamer now, yes?" House looked up to the ceiling. Yeah, he hadn't done _any_ drugs.

"Yeah, House has been _real _tame." Wilson said, giving his friend a look. "He just got off of his narcotics addiction, he's dropped acid several times over the past few years, and his psychiatrist said he was an alcoholic."

"Trust me, Wilson, that's tame. And all of that was for medical reasons, except for the booze. Besides, I'm clean now, isn't the present supposed to be the only thing that matters?" He gave Wilson a big sappy frown, but the oncologist just rolled his eyes.

"Sure, House. I'll just ignore all of the crap you've put me through over the years and start anew."

"Oh, God, Wilson, we are NOT going to get into the blame game. I'm sure that'll be enough to drive Gord's blood pressure sky high." Nearly every time they started talking about House's various addictions, Wilson ended up chastising him for being such a burden and a bad influence, as if the oncologist wasn't screwed-up _at all_. House usually just let it all slide past him, but occasionally his best friend would say something outrageous and they would get into an argument, which never actually got them anywhere.

"Please, _do_ play the blame game. I haven't been clued in to everything Greg has done over the years, so perhaps we should start from the beginning." House frowned at the way Wyatt had turned practically gleeful at the prospect of exposing the story of the years since they had last seen each other, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat's. Then again, he _was_ a psychiatrist. Dr. Nolan had wanted to know everything about him, and while not everything had come out, most of his life had ended up spurting involuntarily out of his mouth during their sessions. Gord already knew about his childhood stuff, so it was only natural for him to be curious about what came after. And this was starting to sound like Wyatt wanted to engage them in some sort of impromptu therapy. Well, he wasn't going to have any of it. His mind began whirled as possibilities for playing hooky from their lunch began to appear.

"Well, let me see." Wilson started, putting his hands on his hips in that annoyingly endearing Wilson way, getting his rant voice warmed up. "First, he roped me into his twisted ways with that strange overture at the medical conference, a move that I should have seen as the beginning of a drawn-out and torturous disaster, then he proceeded to alienate all of my wives, gradually driving them away from me, he dragged me into the whole mess with him and Stacy and the infarction, then he slowly got me to support his drug habit, he practically screwed my marriage with Julie, he's made me do countless illegal things, not to mention the Tritter debacle, which nearly landed us both in jail with charges of drug trafficking, then there was the whole mess with his diagnostics team, and then there was Amber…" he trailed off after mentioning his late girlfriend, and refused to meet anyone's eye.

"I killed his girlfriend." House said, and Wilson was surprised to hear that he didn't say it with any sarcasm or melodrama. It seemed to be with actual regret that House looked back on the bus crash.

"Surely you didn't really…" Wyatt admonished, looking his old friend in the eye. He could see pain there, guilt, regret, remorse, all of those things, but nothing of what became of men who murdered.

"Well, it was my fault that she was on the bus, because I was getting drunk, being so ridiculously dependent on Wilson's friendship that I had managed to work myself up into such a torment of self-pity that I needed to get smashed at random bars every night." He looked quickly at Wilson, his face as guilty as the oncologist had ever seen it. He was disappointed to find that he was surprised to see such a look of shame and remorse on his friend's face. With a pang, he realized that this was one of the reasons House had gone downhill. Guilt washed over him too, a fact that didn't escape Wyatt's notice. He could tell from the energy in the air that some taboo topic had just been breached, perhaps something that had escaped real discussion for a long time. "And it was my fault that I called her, because I really did know that you had been on call that night, and I… I don't know… but before I knew it, I woke up in a strip club with half a skull and no recollection of the hours before." House looked up at Wyatt, his eyes glassier than before, though the older man didn't feel any need to mention it. He looked at Wilson, letting the sadness wash off of his face, to be replaced with something angrier. "Let's really face this, Wilson; as I'm sure you've been thinking ever since we figured out that it was Amber that I needed to save, it's all my fault that the one good thing that's happened for you since like, ever, got taken away from you. No more denials, no more shifts in blame, it was all my fault." The oncologist looked completely taken aback. He had certainly not expected their lunch to turn into a full-blown confession from House, even though he had felt the atmosphere shifting.

"Did they teach you nothing in therapy?" he asked, incredulous. "There were a hundred thousand factors leading up to her death, House, and you getting drunk was just one of them. She chose to get on that bus with you; she chose to care enough about you to return your cane!"

"No, I can't be _vain_ enough to take credit for everything, but if it wasn't for me, neither us would have been on that bus. Hell, maybe if we hadn't taken those extra seconds to get on that bus, maybe the whole damn crash would have been avoided. Maybe-"

"Greg." Wyatt said darkly, cutting him off. "Wilson's right; there are always an infinite amount of factors in every event. If the people who got on at the stops after you hadn't been there, if a car in front of you hadn't been parking, if the road had been paved smoother, if the timer on the red light was just a few seconds shorter or longer, maybe this crash could have been avoided. Each person who contributed to the event feels some amount of guilt over what happened, but you cannot live your life dwelling on the small part you play in the misfortunes of the universe. What we _can_ do is try to make good choices, and do all that is in our power to prevent misfortune from happening. This doesn't mean that we need to suppress our natures, for that too, leads to tragedy. We only need to do the best we can, and the rest is left up to chance and circumstance." While Wyatt didn't know the exact details of the accident, he could see the weight of guilt sitting heavily on House's shoulders, and he was loath to see his old friend in pain.

"She was still on that bus because of me." House muttered, looking down at his feet. He hadn't wanted anything about their dysfunctional relationship to be brought back into the light, least of all Amber's death. Even though he had learned to let go of much of the guilt during his stay in Mayfield, the pain was still there, and he felt a sudden urge to convey to Wilson how much he felt responsible for the incident. Maybe that would make the younger man believe in his remorse, because Wilson didn't seem to be able to trust him about anything.

"She was on that bus because of me, too, House. You don't think _I_ feel guilty? I dragged her into our crazy friendship; it was my fault that she managed to care enough about us to go pick you up in the middle of the night! I have to live with that guilt, too, House! But your friend is right; all we can do is live as the people that we are and hope for the best."

"What about the blame game? What about all of the _crap_ that I've put you through?"

"Might I suggest that Wilson is beginning to rethink his opinions of you and your place in his life?" Wyatt said, pleased with what had been discussed. He spotted the unresolved issues between the pair from a mile off, and while only the surface had been scratched, he always enjoyed helping people get the peace they disturbed. He certainly wanted to talk with the psychiatrist House had or was seeing. Then again, he had more important things to deal with than the battered emotions of his adolescent friend, like the case. And then there was the annoying fact that was sick with something. "Perhaps, as is often the case, the blame game is played to try and push all of our faults onto another person, alleviating ourselves of guilt, when we ourselves are the ones we hate the most. I'm sure you're no stranger to this, Greg."

"He shifts from blame to sympathy too easily." House muttered. "One minute, he's pinning all of his life problems on Greg House; the next, his messiah complex is driving him to comfort me."

"And perhaps now _you're_ the one criticizing to draw attention away from yourself."

"Well, I'm supposed to have already been fixed, so I don't see what the point is in-"

"Might I suggest something for the two of you?" Wyatt cut in. "I know a bright young psychologist who would delight in engaging you in couple's therapy. He's already been working with Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan." That would solve the problem of his already busy schedule, and he was sure Sweets would delight in such a dysfunctional relationship to study. Though of course, his main focus remained the FBI agent and his forensic anthropologist partner. He wasn't surprised in the least, unfortunately, that Booth hadn't managed to 'grow a set'.

"And I can see how well that's been going; they obviously have NO issues. If he can't get them to sleep together, I don't know how much good he can do with me and Wilson."

"Wait, you want to _sleep_ with me?" That was totally messed up. As far as Wilson knew, House was attracted to one sex, and one sex only, and that sex's genitalia did not dangle.

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all!" Trust Wilson to take everything in the completely wrong way. "If he can't get them to admit their feelings for each other, I don't see why he's such an ingénue." House had met his fair share of young super geniuses, and he had yet to be impressed by any of them. "Wilson's pretty stubborn when it comes to talking about his issues."

"Me?_ You_ used to hide behind a brick wall of Vicodin and sarcasm!"  
"Yeah, well who's the one who successfully made it through the looney bin? I think we all know who the one with the real problems is, Mr. Not-So-Well-Adjusted. I think you're the one who should have been carted off to Mayfield!"

"Yeah, because _I_ couldn't sleep for days after my employee did himself in and started hallucinating my best friend's dead girlfriend! You're right, I should have gone and you should have stayed here, because you're the stable one!"

"Oi!" Wyatt shouted, interrupting their increasingly heated argument. "You're both screwed-up, ass-backwards, convoluted, labyrinthine, full of bollocks, malfunctioning middle-aged men who can't talk about their emotions to each other in fear of shifting the delicate balanced that their twisted relationship functions on and-" His words were cut off by a gasp that came from his own mouth. Both House and Wilson shut up at this new development. Wilson's usual caring face made an appearance on his face, but if he had taken the time to look at his best friend, he would have seen a similar expression.

"My, my hands!" Wyatt exclaimed, holding them out in front of him like they no longer belonged on his body.

"What's wrong with them?" House asked, going into doctor mode, quickly forgetting the argument of a few moments earlier.

"At first they were numb, but it feels like the very fires of Hell have been set on them." he answered, in a remarkably calm voice. "Now, if my medical training hasn't abandoned me in my years of catching criminals, I believe we have a new symptom to add to the board."

House nodded. "Pain and paresthesia in the hands. Wilson, get the fantastic four out of the cafeteria and into the office. It's time for a differential diagnosis."

The oncologist nodded grimly. He got up, disposed of his lunch, and nearly knocked into a tall boy. On second glance, he turned out not to be a boy but a young man with a face more boyish than his own.

"Dr. Lance Sweets." the man said, offering his hand. Wilson shook it, still a little confused from the almost-crash. Sweets directed his attention to Wyatt. "I heard about you being in the hospital from Dr. Brennan, and I thought I'd stop by, Dr,- I mean Chef, or is it Doctor again now… never mind. It's good to see you again."

"Ah, _Dr_. Sweets." House got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. No way this Boy Scout was- "Gentlemen, meet your new therapist." Dr. Lance Sweets looked at Wyatt, confused, but the older man only gave him a cryptic wink in answer. This was going to be a lot of fun.

"I'll get the nurse in here for your hands." House grumbled, limping out of the room. Fan-freaking-tastic.


	6. Morning Laps and Marathons

**So, this chapter is really just build up to the next one. And things are going to get pretty intense. **

**Like the hundredth episode of Bones. Which I saw yesterday. My friend sums it up best in her coherent statement "But they-! And the-! And Sweets's-! What going to-? How's it-? Oh god!". Or in other words, AHHHH!**

_Six Hours Earlier…_

Special Agent Seeley Booth woke at the charming hour of 6:04 to the delightful sound of a hairdryer. He groaned and rolled over, trying to decide if the hairdryer sound was part of the dream he had just been having or something that was actually in the real world. As he cautiously opened his eyes, he came face to face with a glossy glass window and billowing, creamy curtains. His still slightly fuzzy mind had been about ready to question why the curtains were moving before he got a mouthful of silk and a gust of wind that chilled the little beads of sweat that had formed on his face during the night. It had been a bad dream, one of the worst of the nine that had started reoccurring since his first day of kindergarten, several more joining the lineup after his experiences in the army and FBI. Brief flashes of the visions he had just been experiencing ran through his mind, and he remembered with an involuntary shiver the sound of a man's neck being hacked apart by an electric razor. Just his luck, having a nightmare while sharing a room with Bones. Perhaps she had been woken up by his whimpers and flailing limbs, as a few girlfriends had been before. Not that they were sleeping in the same bed. Oh, no, he was painfully aware of the fact that a good three feet of carpet separated their two beds, but he still remembered waking up in the middle of the night to see her sleeping form sprawled out across her mattress. He's seen her sleeping a few times, most notably when he finds her off in the land of Nod on the couch in her office, but seeing her in a bed, just a short distance away from him, was almost… intimate. An unexplainable surge of affection came over him as he thought of his partner in such a peaceful state. She deserved more time like that, and less time stressed out about cases, or family matters, or anything else that denied her well needed rest.

Now that he was up, he could hear her hairdryer loud and clear, and it was so loud that he came out of his hazy morning state in record time. Getting up out of the warmth of his bed, he shook off the remaining bits of the nightmare and went over to the mini fridge, whose contents promised cold croissants and diced up fruit from the Wal-Mart the night before. They hadn't bothered keeping the pizza. However, when he reached the fridge, he was met with the sight of a small pot of coffee and red mug, as well as a note. He poured himself some of the much needed energy booster, and picked up the note.

_Booth,_

_Assuming that you get this note after I am gone, and not while I am still in the hotel room, there are several things you need to be informed of. First, if I am not in the room, I have gone to the hotel restaurant to pick up some breakfast for us, as I tried the croissants and they were incredibly dry and unpalatable. On principle, I refuse to eat food of poor quality without good reason, and when you are travelling with me, I will see to it that you adhere to this rule as well. The fruit was acceptable, I suppose, if a bit heavy on the cantaloupe, so you may eat it if you choose. I also am generally opposed to ordering room service at grossly inflated prices. _

_Secondly, we will be questioning the boyfriend of one of the victims at eight-thirty. After we finish, I will be holding a video conference with the team, and you are expected to be there to hear everything, as per usual. While talking with Cam, I will arrange a time for me to travel back to D.C. to examine the remains in the lab. Your participation in this decision would be useful. If I am not needed back right away, then we will phone the hospital and ask about a visiting time to see Dr. Wyatt. If there is no time immediately available, then I suggest we look for some lunch downtown. Otherwise, we will have to eat down in the hotel restaurant._

_Thirdly, Dr. Sweets has sent me an email regarding our sessions. He is now in Princeton, visiting Dr. Wyatt, so we will be able to continue our weekly sessions as per usual. Fourthly, he has also informed me that if needed, we will have Ms. Daisy Wick available while we are down here, as she is staying with him, though I believe my expertise will suffice for now. I suspect that their relationship has gotten quite serious, seeing as she had wished to go with him on a short trip. Just speculation on my part. _

_Fifthly, regarding the intern that is currently on rotation, we will be using the skills of Mr. Fischer back at the lab._

_I believe that covers everything. And Booth, please do not try to pay for anything while we are here. I realize that the FBI normally pays for our travel expenses, but that would only cover the amount of time necessary for the investigation and we are going to be here longer than the allotted time. I will be paying for the room, as well as any meals, snacks, fees, ect. I would advise you not to argue._

_Bones_

He had just barely finished reading her rather long note when she stepped back into the room, her hair dry and bouncy. She had managed to get dressed already, wearing a plain pair of dark blue jeans in a figure-flattering boot-cut, as well as a silken blouse in a dark eggplant and flats in the same colour. He gaped at her momentarily, before deciding that telling her that she looked absolutely breathtaking would probably result in an awkward argument.

"You look nice, Bones." he settled for, sending a sleepy smile her way. She flashed a small one back at him, and pointed at the window.

"I'm sorry I left the window open, Booth, but it had gotten quite warm in the middle of the night. I'm surprised you woke up so early. We don't need to leave for another two hours. I simply got up because I was planning on working on my book for an hour or so. I like to be dressed and ready at a moment's notice, though."

"I was wondering how comfortable it would be to write in your clothes," Booth commented, grinning at her again. "I _thought_ you would be an early bird."

"Yes, if by early bird you mean a person who gets up early and starts their day before the generally accepted time. And these jeans are actually quite comfortable to sit it. They don't ride up like other pairs that I have, which can make the gluteus quite irritated." She turned around, peering back around her shoulder as she showed her partner the back of her 'comfortable' jeans.

"Whoa, Bones, too much information!" He tried not to look at her ass, but in the morning he wasn't exactly the most controlled person. He didn't need her commented on his pubic extension, if it should ever become noticeable, and in his boxers, it was entirely possible.

"Hey, Bones, why did you have a shower this morning if you had one last night?" he asked, trying to bring the topic away from her derriere.

"I didn't."

"I woke up to the sound of your hairdryer, Bones."

"I apologize for that Booth. But I wasn't having a shower. I went down to the pool to do my morning laps."

"Morning laps? What time did you get down there? The pool is open at this time?"

"This hotel caters to busy business people, so naturally their facilities are open quite early to accommodate the schedules of their clients. When I got there at five, they-"

"You got up at _five_? Do you always get up that early?"

"No, I usually am up at five-thirty. However, seeing as I had gotten new inspiration for my book and didn't want to skip out on my morning exercise routine, I got up early to fit it all in before I had to get us breakfast at seven and then leave to question our witnesses." Booth wondered briefly where her new 'inspiration' for her book had come from. He really hoped it hadn't been from Dr. House. All the arrogant jerk needed was to be written about in a best-selling novel.

"I guess you've got our day all planned out. I read the note."

"Good. I hope I didn't leave anything out. I had been bombarded with a large amount of information this morning when I opened my email inbox."

"No, I think the only thing missing was the kitchen sink." Predictably, she looked puzzled.

"Booth, there was nothing to do with a kitchen sink in-" She caught his grin. "Ah, the kitchen sink must be part of some sort of colloquialism."

"Everything but the kitchen sink, Bones, everything but the kitchen sink."  
"That still doesn't make any sense, Booth."

"How about I get dressed and we check out the breakfast downstairs?" Booth said, finishing off his coffee.

"That sounds like a good plan." Brennan agreed. "You can get ready in the restroom."

"Will do, Bones." the FBI agent replied, rummaging through his suitcase, before carefully pulling out of his more casual suits. "I'll be out in five."

And five minutes later, they left the hotel room, their minds on eggs and toast and another cup of fresh, hot coffee.

***

"So, why are we meeting with this boyfriend so early?" Booth asked, after consuming a large mouthful of bacon and eggs. They had waited five minutes for the table in the restaurant, and to be completely honest, once Booth had seen the prices on the menu, he was happy to have an excuse not to insist on paying for the meals. He was determined to pay for half the room, though. He was still trying to figure out how to slip that one past Brennan.

"He's a personal trainer." Brennan answered, cleaning her mouth of the little bits of omelet that had stuck to it. "He has appointments from ten o'clock on, and he had to move one of the earlier ones up to five o'clock. He's apparently quite a busy man."

"Yeah, and first on a long list of people to talk to while we're here." he muttered.

"We have to get as much information on these victims as possible to link them together, Booth, you know that."

"Yeah, well, it kinda sucks that I have to balance solving this case and seeing my sick friend, all while entertaining you for God knows how long."

"I can take care of myself quite well, Booth. I don't need to be with you every second of every day that we're here."

"That's usually how it works, Bones. We do stuff for the case all day, then go back to the hotel or where ever we're staying and stay up working on it with the rest of the team. Besides, what were you planning on doing in Princeton, anyway? You don't know anyone here, do you?"

"Well, what if I want to visit Sweets?" Booth chuckled.

"Yeah, right, Bones, you and Sweets having a nice social visit; maybe you two and Daisy could go see a rom-com?"

"Rom-com?"

"Romantic comedy. I hear _Leap Year_ with Amy Adams is out now. Face it; you're not going anywhere without me."

"What if I go on a date?" The question stopped Booth for a second, but he brushed off the unpleasant notion.

"Where are you going to pick up a date here? One of the suspects? Or maybe you can pick up a sexy male nurse at the hospital."

"Dr. House seemed rather interested in me."

"Yeah, well, Dr. House is a jerk. And trust me; the last guy you want to go out with is a jerk."

"How would you know, Booth? You've never been out with a man."  
"Look, I just know, okay Bones? I've seen women go out with men that seemed like perfect angels and they got their heart broken later because they revealed themselves for who they really were later. I just want you to be happy, alright?"

"I realize that your role as an alpha male drives you to protect females, but I can take care of myself. And before you remind me again, I know I don't always end up with a good guy, but I don't need you logging my every move. Is that fair?"

"Yeah. I just get worried sometimes, you know? And I'm sorry for saying that I'd have to entertain you all the time, too. I know you can do stuff on your own. I guess I've just gotten used to being around you most of the time." Brennan thought about that comment. It was becoming more and more true as the years went by.

"I accept your apology, Booth." the forensic anthropologist said, placing her hand on his for a moment that lasted a little too long to be completely platonic.

"Thanks, Bones." Booth replied, squeezing her hand in return. It sent a shot of warmth throughout Brennan, and suddenly the room felt too hot. She had been experiencing more and more of these symptoms of 'love' lately, and it seemed that the closer she got to him, the harder it got to stay that extra inch farther.

"And to be honest, I probably _will _end up spending most of my time with you." she admitted. "There really isn't anything for me to do in Princeton, between the investigation and visiting Dr. Wyatt, and though Dr. House is undoubtedly attracted to me, as most straight men are, I don't see myself having time to go out with him while we are here." Her statement was a half-relief to him, because although she seemed to have eliminated the possibility of another man taking her away from him, she hadn't exactly told him that she wouldn't be interested.

"Like I've said before, Bones, I just want you to be safe. And if that means making sure you're dating the right guys, then that's what I have to do."

"Booth, I don't need you to-"

"I know, but _I_ need me to. You're a wonderful woman, and any man would be lucky to have you. I just want to make sure you get a man that _you'd _be lucky to have, that's all."

_The only man I can see myself being lucky to have right now is sitting right in front of me, _

Brennan thought, but as with most thoughts of that nature, she kept it to herself.

"In the past, I would have regarded what you have just said as a mere stating of the obvious. In our society, attractive, intelligent, physically fit and wealthy women are desired, and I am certainly all of those things. However, I now realize that what you have just said is a great compliment, so thank you, Booth. It makes me happy to know that you think I deserve someone special."

"You're welcome, Bones." They shared a moment, but like all of their moments, this one passed quickly. Brennan broke their eye contact, fearing that her partner would notice the blush creeping up her neck. It didn't just make her feel happy to know that Booth wanted the best for her, it made her feel like she was worth something, and more importantly, worth something to him. It was just one step closer to what she wanted, and any step, no matter how small, seemed to make the goal closer and closer. She was collecting evidence that he felt the same way about her as she felt about him, and though there wasn't enough for conclusive proof, she felt like they were getting somewhere.

It both thrilled her and scared her, and as much as she wanted Booth, she knew she wasn't ready to be who he needed in a romantic partner. Just as she knew her strengths, she knew her weaknesses, and one of them was in the emotions department. She was still struggling with the fact that she was experiencing such a deep connection with someone. But their moment seemed to loom closer and closer. She just hoped that when the time came, she would be able to show Booth that they could have a functional relationship while continuing their excellent record in crime-fighting. But first she would have to continue to learn about what she could and couldn't be for him. And this trip seemed like a perfect exercise in that.

"Whatcha thinking about, Bones?" Booth's voice broke her out of her thoughts. He was smiling at her, like all he wanted to do was look at her for the rest of his life. As if she would know that that was what that look meant, though.

"Oh, just thinking about the case." she lied. "We should probably get going soon."

"Yeah, you're right." They finished their coffee and left the restaurant, then headed for the parking lot. The two had a long day ahead of them.

***

"I'd known Eva for about three years." a tearful man told them, as Booth and Brennan sat on a rather unattractive couch. Only two of the victims had dental records, and they were here talking to the husband of Rita Johnson, the African woman in her early fifties.

"We got married just a few months after dating. I knew she was the woman for me, as soon as we met. It just took a few years to convince her to give me a try. Soon after, we were in love, and didn't see any point in waiting. True love, sometimes it cannot wait. And sometimes it can wait forever, just for that one moment." The husband's words sent an odd chill through Brennan. The more and more she heard about love, the more and more it seemed like that was what she felt for Booth.

"So, did Rita have many close friends? Did she belong to a gym or community centre? Was she very active?" Booth asked. He had to adjust their normal questions about enemies, seeing as they already knew who the killer was. The trick was discovering how the killer knew his victims. Every clue brought them closer and closer to the answer.

"She wasn't a very social woman. I met her at work, actually. She was very shy, at least around people she didn't know." the man answered.

"And I can tell you that she was very active." Brennan cut in. "My preliminary examination revealed evidence of a long history of long-distance running."

"Yes, Rita was quite fond of her marathons. She always wanted me to run one with her, just one." he looked out of the window sadly. "If I could have anything with her, it would be to run with her. She always looked happiest when running. But when she couldn't, the second best thing for her was to be with me. I will wait for her, Agent Booth. I will live my life, and when I die, we will meet in Heaven." He looked the FBI agent in the eye, and a silent look of understanding passed between the two men. Brennan recognized the special connection that the two of them had. Unfortunately, she did have a few more questions to ask.

"So, _did_ she have any gym memberships?"

"She went to the Princeton Centre for Yoga and Health twice a week. She also volunteered at the SPCA every weekend. I hope that helps."

"We'll find your wife's killer." Booth said, looking the man in the eye. "We're going to do whatever it takes." Brennan didn't for a second think to remind the husband that it was possible that they wouldn't find the killer. She knew that between her expertise and Booth's determination to find justice, the killer would eventually be found.


	7. Marigolds and Messing

**In a jealous rage, sketchnurse found the inspiration to write the long overdue chapter. One of her friends had met William Shatner AND Leonard Nimoy at the Star Trek convention this weekend. Here is the result of her jealousy. **

**Please note that sketchnurse is not a medical doctor ( or even a nurse), and any sort of medical things you may read about in the coming chapters do not come from years of training, but from a few human physiology texts and the World Wide Web. **

After returning to the hotel from the husband's house, Brennan held her video conference with her team, and learned that her presence was not yet needed back at the lab. Suspecting that she really was needed back in D.C, and her team had just told her that they were fine so she could focus on Gordon Wyatt's illness, she ended the conference in a bit of a snit. However, Booth offered to drive them down to the local diner for another cup of coffee and some donuts, and didn't allow her to protest.

He drove, while Brennan stared out of the window, thinking about things as usual. However, the silence did start to get a little weird, as Booth's partner hadn't even commented on the innocence of the victim, or how ridiculous it was for him to expect to find his dead lover up in a Heaven that wasn't even guaranteed to exist.

"Bones?" he asked, just to make sure that she was all there. You could never quite tell what was on her mind. Over the years he had become much better at reading her than most other people, but she still continued to mystify him. Maybe that was what made being around her so exciting.

He could definitely tell, though, that something was bothering her. He didn't know if it was seeing evidence of a love that did seem to last beyond death, or just the serial killer in the case. The killer did seem to have a destructive effect on society at the present time, and he knew that his partner cared very, very much about the proper functioning of the world that she lived in and the sanctity of life. And of course, Booth didn't like serial killers much, either. It chilled his blood to think of someone who could just _kill_, without hesitation, remorse, or guilt. And without reason. He wondered if Brennan ever thought about her father, when investigating a murder. Was her mind capable of separating everything in her life that much? Of course it was. Her ability to survive through traumatizing events depended on her skills in compartmentalizing. He wondered if she would ever snap, under all of the pressure.

He realized that Brennan was staring at him, and shook his head slightly, dissipating his thoughts. While had been wondering about his partner, she had been trying to get his attention.

"Booth?" Sometimes, he would try to get her attention, then drift off into space, or disappear into his own head, or whatever term was appropriate. She had to admit, she did that a lot too. Though doubtless he tended to dwell on emotional matters, while she was more likely to think through problems rationally.

He looked over at her briefly. Circling the block the diner was situated on, he was disappointed to see that all of the parking spaces close to it were full. He parked a couple blocks away, hoping that the diner itself wasn't too busy.

"Sorry, Bones, just got a little distracted there." he muttered, opening his door. To his pleasure, she was fiddling with the thousand things in her purse, which gave him opportunity to get over to her side of the SUV and open the door for her. "You coming, or are you going to text with Angela all day?" Surprisingly, she blushed at this, and looked down, hastily putting her phone back into the bag. "Angela didn't send you any weird pictures or anything, did she?" he asked, offering a hand to help her out of the car. Rolling her eyes, she accepted it, and hopped out, smoothing out her skirt as he let go. Brennan muttered something too low to hear, and he turned around, grinning at her. "Sorry, Bones, didn't quite catch that."

"I made the mistake of informing Angela that we were sleeping in the same room, and she has been spamming me with suggestions that we engage in coitus all day." Booth, to his credit, didn't let the silly grin slide off of his face. "Don't worry, that's just Angela being Angela. She's spent every minute of our partnership trying to get us to hook up; did you really think it would stop when we went out of town?"

"It's just getting harder." she said softly, so softly that he wasn't sure he had heard what he thought he had heard. Getting harder? What was getting harder? Probably resisting the urge to slap the artist silly when she made blush-inducing suggestions about what he and his partner should be doing instead of paperwork. Whatever it had been, Booth knew it wasn't something he was meant to respond to.

"Come on," he said, waiting up for Brennan as his strides carried his body ahead of hers. Apparently still communicating with her best friend, the forensic anthropologist was ambling along slowly, furiously pressing keys on her phone.

They walked into the diner, and Brennan couldn't help but compare it to the one back home. Certainly this one was less well-kept. She hoped the coffee would be up to par.

They sat down at a table together for the second time that day, and began to discuss the case, as well as the information her team had been able to gather from the remains. The coffee turned out to be quite good, and the donuts even more so. The arrangement of marigolds on their table was a nice touch too. However, looking at the time, Brennan decided it would probably be best if they made their way back to the hospital to see Gordon Wyatt. Booth agreed, and soon they were on their way back to the hotel. However, they had chosen a bad time to leave the diner. A heavy, cold rain had started to fall from the sky, and seconds after they had exited the warmth of the building, both partners were drenched. Their walk back to the SUV soaked them even more so, and Booth's head was dripping water as he started the car up.

"Okay, so we'll have to change into some drier clothes before heading up to see Gordon Gordon." he muttered. The drive back wasn't too bad, and since they had parked underground, the freezing rain didn't have the opportunity to get to them again.

"Do you think we're visiting him too much?" Brennan asked suddenly, as they travelled up to their floor in the elevator. Booth looked puzzled for a second, before smiling at her again. God, he seemed to be doing that a lot. And the worst part was, every time he did, she got a feeling in her stomach (at least, that's where it felt like it was) that was warm and fluttery and make her feel on edge all at the same time. No other man… this sounded a lot like the romance novels Angela liked to read aloud while they were over at her place, sipping wine, while Brennan reluctantly sat on her friend's bed and leafed through magazines. Not that there was anything wrong with Girl's Night. Actually, she often found herself looking forward to it. Though never to the talk Angela always gave her about how she and Booth were absolutely perfect for each other. There was simply no feasible way that two people could be _perfect_ for each other. Very compatible, perhaps, but perfect?

"Bones, Gordon Gordon is our friend, and it's normal to want to make sure he's okay, right? And you know, _anthropologically _speaking, we're programmed to—" She cut him off with a light sock on the arm. He made a face and rubbed the spot where she had hit him, but she just laughed lightly. "Don't mock me, Booth. I'm just saying, maybe he doesn't want to see us. He's likely not feeling well, and I know that when I'm—"

"Aww, come on, Gordon Gordon loves us too much to get tired of us." he said, gesturing for her to exit the elevator before him. She acquiesced, replying as they walked to their room.

"I'm sure he finds us quite frustrating at times, as do most people." Brennan said, opening the door with her pass key.

"Us, frustrating?" He winked at her, to show that he was being sarcastic, but she had turned her back to him and didn't see it.

"Well, we do tend to bicker quite a bit, Booth." That was definitely an understatement. He couldn't think of many times when they weren't engaged in some sort of disagreement. And Booth liked it like that.

"I guess you're right." he said playfully, sitting down with a loud thump! on his bed. He shot right back up, remembering that he was soaking wet and probably shouldn't get his bedding all soggy. He began rummaging through his drawers for dry things while Brennan's back was turned. Not that he would mind her seeing him pick out clean boxers and a pair of socks, _no_. Not like he was a prude or anything. "Hey," he began to ask, after selecting the appropriate items. "You figure we should bring Gordon Gordon some flowers or a box of chocolates or something?" He turned to his wardrobe and got out a fresh shirt, pair of pants, and a suit jacket, which he laid out on the bed. His partner was doing similar things beside him, though she didn't seem to care about him seeing her underthings. Lacy, _lacy_ underthings. Not that he _was_ looking.

"Where would you like to get him this item?" she asked, starting to slip out of her shirt.

"_Woah_, Bones, what are you doing?" Brennan turned around, arms half tangled in the shirtsleeves.

"Getting changed, obviously." she answered. "Oh—sorry, I forgot that you were..." In the room? A man? "Sorry if that was a problem for you." Booth resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Well, yeah, that was a problem for him. Nothing like the sight of his Bones in panties and a bra to keep his mind on the important things.

"I just—maybe you could use the restroom or something. Or, or I could." She stared at him blankly for a second, before settling back into her wet shirt.

"Booth, if me getting undressed in the same room as you makes you uncomfortable, then that's perfectly fine. We did, after all, change in separate rooms last night. I supposed I was just anxious to get going again. Most men in today's society associate nudity with a level of comfort usually only found in sexual relationships, so I can see where you're coming from. I suppose I'm just used to being able to change with Angela in the same room. She's constantly complementing me on the firmness of my br—"

"Okay, Bones, too much information." Waaaay too much information. The last thing he needed, after seeing her half out of her shirt, were stories about Angela's comments on her anatomy. Doubtless she was a fan of the female body, but thinking about the two of them… there was a reason that he needed a separate room from her. There were… things that needed taking care of sometimes. "Look, I'll just use the restroom, okay?"

She looked at him like she wanted to argue, but he quickly grabbed his things and strode into the other room, locking the door. She went back to changing. Some people were just too uptight for their own good. Like Booth, when it came to sexuality. He had looked like his eyes were going to bug out of his head when she started explaining that Angela thought she had well-formed breasts. It wasn't unusual. Her friend was very appreciative of the human form, and Booth had surely looked at her chest before.

Ten minutes later, they were on their way to the hospital, and engaged in another silence. This time, however, Brennan was stealing glances at her partner, whose eyes were locked on the road. Something was up with him. He had been noticeably tenser since they had come back to the hotel room.

After a drive that had felt short and long all at the same time (Brennan didn't want to spend too much time on the logistics of that), the pair found a space for the SUV and made their way over to the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

"You're sure we should be visiting him this often?" Brennan asked her partner, as they walked through the sliding doors. He gave her a look, which silenced her for the time being. Before heading up to the psychiatrist's room, they stopped at the gift shop and got him a nice box of good chocolates; knowing Gordon Wyatt, he would definitely be able to tell the difference. They were silent once again on the way up to the room.

"You know," Brennan started, as they stepped off the elevator. "We haven't eaten anything since breakfast, aside from the coffee and donuts."

"Well, I thought seeing our sick friend kind of took priority." he answered. Usually being the one to bring up the subject of food, Booth was surprised that not only had he forgotten about lunch, but that Brennan had thought to bring it up.

"We'll get something in the cafeteria later." he assured her, and seeming satisfied for the moment, she fell silent.

"Hey, Dr. Sweets!" he exclaimed upon entering. The young psychologist was sitting next to Gordon Gordon's bed, and he could also see, on the other side, a man with brown hair that he didn't know. Brennan entered after him, which was, of course, unusual unto itself. Booth was clearly distracted, if he had forgotten all about his male chivalry.

"Hey, Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan." Clearly in a discussion with the other two men, Lance Sweets looked to be in much better shape than the other occupants of the room. For one thing, his hair hadn't dried in a way that made it extremely difficult for Brennan to keep from laughing. The mystery man seemed to be as agitated as her partner, although with her limited people skills, he could have just as likely been in a state of extreme ecstasy.

"When did you get here?" Brennan asked, walking over to Sweets. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to greet him by shaking hands, or patting him on the back, but the young man answered her question for her, pulling her into a light embrace.

"Just a few hours ago." he answered. "Daisy's meeting up with an old friend, she'll be here later." Turning her attention to Gordon Wyatt, Brennan stepped out of Sweets' personal space, allowing the young man to greet her partner in the same manner.

"How are you doing, Dr. Wyatt?" Her voice betrayed only a little of the concern she was feeling for the man, but the psychiatrist noticed it all the same. Wyatt smiled in that reassuringly British way of his, and glanced around the room. Booth had managed to evade Sweets' greeting, and was now standing around rather nervously, feeling quite out of place. The room suddenly seemed too small to hold five people. As if someone somewhere had heard his thoughts, a nurse appeared, pink scrubs clashing horribly with her red hair.

"I'm afraid we can only have three visitors in at a time." she said. Five people looked at each other questioningly.

"I'm afraid I have get going." the man Booth didn't know said, getting off of his chair and heading for the door. "I have an appointment at one thirty to prepare for."

"Well, can we at least have a couple minutes for introductions?" Wyatt asked the nurse, putting on his full charm. She smiled at him blushingly, and nodded. "I'm sure it wouldn't hurt."

"Well, Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, I'd like you to meet Dr. James Wilson, head of Oncology here at the hospital and Dr. House's best friend." Wilson nodded his head and looked down.

"I really should be—"

"Oh, nonsense. You have a couple seconds to space for proper introductions, yes?" The oncologist sighed ever so slightly, and gave a little smile.

"This is Special Agent Seeley Booth and his lovely partner Dr. Temperance Brennan. They were here, rather coincidentally, to aid with the ongoing investigation of a serial killer. They both had the pleasure of meeting your friend Greg last night, although the night did take a rather nasty turn when I ended up in the hospital."

"Nice to meet both of you." Wilson said, shaking the hands of the two partners. Booth was looking at him as if he couldn't possibly be sane for wanting to be friends with a man like Gregory House. "And now I really have to be going. Hope you feel better soon, Dr. Wyatt."

"Please, call me Gordon. None of that nasty Doctor stuff. I would really, _really _rather be working in my restaurant. I supposed I'll be seeing you later?" Wilson gave a nod, then departed.

"Well, that was Dr. Wilson. I don't expect we'll be seeing Greg in soon. Most likely he's completely consumed in the mystery of my illness. He always did have a tendency to get lost in whatever puzzle he was working on at the moment."

"So how _are _you feeling?" Booth asked, taking Wilson's recently vacated seat.

"Well, I'm slightly nauseous, have a headache, my insides feel like they've turned to lead and my hands are tingling something marvelous, but on the whole, rather well." he answered, smiling at him. "I've at least been able to catch up on all of the emails I haven't been able to answer. It's amazing, how much the things can pile up after a week or two. So, how's the investigation going?" Sweets perked up noticeably after the word 'investigation', and gave his full attention to the FBI agent.

"Yes, Agent Booth, how is the investigation going? I don't expect that any new leads have been developed yet, but you've managed to indentify the victims, correct?"

"Yes, two of the bodies found was immediately identifiable through dental work, and we talked to the boyfriend of one of the—"

"Husband." Booth cut in. "He said that they had gotten married."

"Her widow, then. He didn't have much to say about her, besides declarations of their everlasting love and—"

"What do you mean, not much to say? We figured out that she was big on running—"

"Which we already knew." Both Wyatt and Sweets were grinning at the back and forth conversation between the two partners. The young psychologist was even considering making a few notes on their interactions, but thought against it. His book was already full of observations of the two partners. Any more, and it would be too long for anyone to want to read.

"Yeah, well we also figured out that she had a membership to the Princeton Centre for Yoga and Health, right? That's pretty important. And she also volunteered at the SPCA."

"Nothing we couldn't have figured out by looking through records. The trip did seem like a waste of time, Booth."

"Hey, you were the one who told me we were going to interview the guy."

"Only because I had checked your email and found one from the local FBI telling you that he was to be questioned."

"Woah, you checked my email? How the hell did you know my password?"

"I didn't need to know it, Booth; you had left the browser open on my laptop. You should know that simply closing it doesn't close all of the windows open."

"That doesn't matter, Bones. What matters is you invaded my privacy."

"I hardly think your work email contains anything one would deem private."

"Oh? Seriously? You don't think I would be receiving any top secret, sensitive information?"

"I have a very high security clearance, Booth."

"That doesn't mean you get to look through my emails!"

"I don't see what the problem is. Looking through your emails allowed me to plan our day productively. Questioning the witness, while a waste of time to me, apparently gave you some information you feel we wouldn't have been able to find otherwise. Therefore, my actions haven't impacted anyone negatively."

"Bones, I would have checked my email when I got up anyway, so I don't know why…"

"This is rather fun, isn't it, Dr. Sweets?" Wyatt commented softly, eyes twinkling. "I haven't witnessed a genuine Booth and Brennan bickering session in quite a while."

"Very interesting." the younger man agreed.

"Look, let's just agree to… not do that again, okay?" Booth's patience was starting to wear thin, and the last thing he needed was a disagreement with his partner. "You don't look at my private things, and I don't look at yours, alright?"

"Booth, you know all of my passwords, no matter how often I change them, and just a few hours ago, you were insisting that it was necessary for you to clutter around with my sex life."

"_Mess _around, Bones. Not clutter. And I am NOT messing around with your sex life." He looked at the other two men in the room, as if he wanted to make sure that both of them were sure to know that he didn't have _anything_ to do with his partner's personal life. The attempt, however valiant, was not met with much success. Wyatt and Sweets looked at each other, each thinking the same thing, which did nothing to calm Booth down.

"Then why won't you let me go out with Dr. House?"

"Okay, slow down there. Number one, he hasn't even asked you out, so there might not even be a problem. And number two, he's a jerk." He looked at Wyatt guiltily after that. "Sorry, Gordon Gordon, I know he's your friend and all, but—"

"No, no, I quite understand. You're quite protective of Dr. Brennan, and I'm well aware of Greg's shortcomings."

"Whose shortcomings?" came a voice from the doorway, and Booth almost collapsed in a puddle of annoyance at the sight of the middle-aged doctor. Greg House limped into the room.

"We're not playing 'Let's insult the guy who's trying to save a life', are we?"

"Hello, Greg. We—"

"Were just talking about me, yeah, I heard. But I didn't come back to talk about our feelings again."

"Well, I can't pretend that's a surprise. I must only assume that you're here to discuss my condition. May I ask what it is you think I am afflicted with?"

"The labs have ruled out food poisoning." House said, leaning heavily on his cane. Though he had gotten to the hospital at his usual late time, he had been up most of the night, thinking. "We're still waiting on the other test results."

"Unusual, then, that you're here without a solution. Surely you have at least a few theories."

"I do."

"Well, let's share, then. I'm a little rusty at the moment, but perhaps you can indulge me. You say food poisoning is out? That would have been a rather boring diagnosis. Did you figure out the cause behind my bloody vomit yet?" Booth started to look a little green around the gills at the mention of his friend's vomit last night, but Brennan, of course, seemed to be quite unaffected.

"All the evidence points to bleeding in your stomach, although it went away on its own."

"So what, then, are you thinking?" Having promptly forgotten his earlier argument with Brennan, Booth was stared determinedly out the window. Even worse than squinty dead body talk was squinty live sick body talk.

"We're—" A loud page interrupted House, and he looked at this pager, swearing under his breath. "I have to go." he said, refusing to meet his friend's eye. "Another patient just had a heart attack."

"Well, good luck, then." Wyatt said, watching his House limp out of the room. "Well, it was nice seeing you all again, Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, Dr. Sweets, but I'm afraid I'm getting rather drowsy and won't be much fun any longer. Make sure you say hi to Daisy for me, would you Dr. Sweets? I daresay the girl's become quite enamoured with me." he added as an aside to Booth. "We've only met twice, but both times she managed to nearly talk my ear off." Booth smiled weakly. Daisy. He was not looking forward to meeting up with her at all.


End file.
